aass_M£L_ 
 
 Book 
 
SKETCHES OF THE 
 
 WAR 
 
 A SERIES OF LETTERS 
 
 TO THE NORTH MOORE STREET SCHOOL 
 
 OF NEW YORK 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES C. NOTT 
 
 LATE CAPTAIN IN THE FIFTH IOWA CAVALRY 
 
 REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION 
 
 NEW YORK 
 WILLIAM ABBATT 
 
 1911 
 
^ 
 
 
 T% 
 
 If 
 
4 
 
 i 
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I.^ DONELSON" ■*- 
 
 II. — The Assault ^^ 
 
 III. FOEAGING 2^ 
 
 IV. — The Hospital ^^ 
 
 V. — A Flag of Truce 45 
 
 VI.— The Holly Fork 64 
 
 VII. — Scouting • • 
 
 VIIL— A Surprise, 98 
 
 IX.— The Escape 124 
 
 X.— The Last Scout 144 
 
 Appendix I 1"^ 
 
 Appendix II 1 • ^ 
 
PREFACE TO ORIGINAL EDITION 
 
 The first edition of this little work was published 
 during its author's absence in the Department of the 
 Gulf, and fought its own way into public favor. The 
 second edition is now published for the exclusive bene- 
 fit of disabled soldiers, and in the expectation of open- 
 ing for them a profitable field of employment. As the 
 first edition was soon exhausted, and no work has been 
 offered to the public that fulfils the designs of this, it 
 is hoped that this edition may find an approval beyond 
 the humane object which calls it forth. 
 
 Written for readers whom I had been accustomed 
 to address familiarly, and among whom the most use- 
 fully happy moments of my life had passed, and com- 
 posed for the most part amid the scenes which they 
 describe, these letters to the North Moore Street School 
 were never intended for adult readers, nor to assume 
 the shape and substance of a book. In composing them 
 I carefully avoided that "baby-talk" which some peo- 
 ple think simplicity, and that paltriness of subject 
 which by many is thought to be alone within the grasp 
 and comprehension of a child. The greatest of chil- 
 dren's stories are those which were written for men. 
 Robinson Cfnisoe and Gulliver s Travels, amid the an- 
 nual wreck of a thousand "juvenile publications,'' sur- 
 
VI PREFACE 
 
 vive, and pass from generation to generation, known 
 to us best as the attractive reading of our early life. 
 This enviable lot is secured to them by the severe pur- 
 ity of their English composition, the simplicity of their 
 style, the natural minuteness of their description, but 
 above all by the real greatness of their authors, v^ho 
 in striving to be simple, never condescend to be little. 
 The Goody Two Shoes of Goldsmith, which was writ- 
 ten for children, is hardly rescued by his charming 
 style; but the Vicar of Wahefieldj which was written 
 for men, has ascended to be a story-book for childhood, 
 and is speedily becoming the exclusive property of the 
 young. 
 
 Therefore while I sought to instruct a few of the 
 children of the United States by carrying them uncon- 
 sciously through the details of military life, and un- 
 folding to them some of the better scenes in their coun- 
 try's great struggle, still I selected just such incidents 
 and topics as I would have chosen for their fathers and 
 mothers, only endeavoring, with greater strictness, to 
 blend in the narration simplicity with elegance. 
 
 C. C. K 
 
INTRODUCTION BY THE PUBLISHER 
 
 TT is twelve years since what was termed "A great 
 meeting in Cooper Union, E". Y.," was held "to 
 honor the memory of Colonel George E. Waring, Jr." 
 A portrait of Colonel Waring, draped with the American 
 flag, was displayed at the rear of the platform. Many 
 of those seated there were members of the City Club, of 
 which Colonel Waring had been President; and there 
 were members of the Authors' Club, the Century Asso- 
 ciation and the Chamber of Commerce, "all of which 
 organizations had united in making arrangements for 
 the meeting." Bishop Potter, President Seth Low and 
 Professor Felix Adler were on the platform. Letters 
 were read from prominent citizens. Colonel Roosevelt 
 wrote that the city of New York owed Colonel Waring 
 a great debt ; and Archbishop Corrigan, that the success 
 of Colonel Waring made it impossible for others not to 
 follow in his footsteps ; and Rev. Lyman Abbott sent a 
 letter in which he eulogized the work done by Colonel 
 Waring and referred to his unselfish, public-spirited 
 record. 
 
 "While President Low was speaking," says the report, 
 "several hundred boys and girls of the volunteer aids to 
 the Department of Street Cleaning and of the Juvenile 
 League of the same department, marched into the hall 
 
Vlll II^TEODUCTIOIyr 
 
 carrying banners." The memorial resolutions covered 
 Colonel Waring's career as soldier, civilian and scientist. 
 "He died a hero's death/' said the resolutions, "not upon 
 the field of battle — though he had proved his courage 
 upon many such fields — but, as he would have preferred 
 to die, in the effort to rescue a great city from infection 
 and disease." In a word, Colonel Waring's memory was 
 honored, as tlie memory of very few men is honored, by 
 the eminent, the learned, the wealthy and the children 
 of the East Side. 
 
 Many years before this, when fresh from the scenes 
 of the Civil War, Colonel Waring expressed his warm 
 appreciation of the first edition of the book which we 
 now reproduce, in a personal letter to a fellow soldier: 
 
 My Dear Hanson : — I send 3^ou with this a copy of 
 War SJcetches, which were written by Colonel Nott, who 
 was Captain in our regiment before your time, and with 
 the tradition of whose good qualities you are familiar. It 
 will be especially interesting to you, as recalling the scenes 
 of our Jolly rough-riding in Western Kentucky and Ten- 
 nessee. 
 
 Do you remember (when we took our brigade from Clin- 
 ton, and started on that wild-goose chase after Faulkner) 
 how we went into camp on the west fork of Clark's Eiver, 
 with our headquarters in a retired nook in the bush, only 
 large enough to hold our little party ? and how there came 
 to us there, a Mr. Wade, a Mr. Chunn, and a Mr. Magness, 
 whose statements, that they were Unionists, we doubted, un- 
 til they told us of their assistance to Captain Nott? how 
 
INTEODUCTION" IX 
 
 we trusted them then; and how faithful we found them? 
 All of this pleasant summer campaign comes back to me — 
 as it will to you — in reading the Sketches. And your mind 
 will run on, as mine does, to our entrance into Murray, the 
 next day, and the Sunday dinner with the good old fox- 
 hunting Mr. Guthrie (the rebels burnt his house down 
 for that hospitality) ; and our "secesh" visitors in the camp 
 below Conyersville, with their peach-brandy and honey; 
 and the preparation for a night attack on the enemy at 
 Paris ; and how that promising scheme was knocked on the 
 head by a stupid order from our nervous old general (a 
 hundred miles away), to turn immediately back, and leave 
 our ripe fruit unplucked ; how Faulkner took courage from 
 our movement, and broke up our game of corn-poker on the 
 Buffalo robe, in the next camp on the back track ; and how 
 we mounted and scoured the country, and couldn't find the 
 party which had attacked us — only heard of them going 
 toward Paris again ? 
 
 Eead the account of the entrance into Paris (pages 71 
 and 72), and see if it does not take you back to our enter- 
 ing it, a year and more ago ; and to our night at Dr. Mathe- 
 son's brick house, at the head of the street, where we went 
 for good quarters, thinking him a rebel and wishing him 
 out of our room before we settled ourselves for the evening, 
 until he asked us if we knew Captain Nott, and showed us 
 that he knew and was trusted by him; and what a cozy 
 evening we passed with them, in spite of the bitter cold 
 weather ? We knew we were with a friend, and he did not 
 spare his wood-pile in entertaining us. 
 
 How graphic is the description of the freezing fast to 
 the ground of the citizens, when they first see us coming 
 
X IIvrTEOBUCTION 
 
 into a town (making it always look like Sunday). Kead, 
 too, of the Obion bottom — which was less muddy, but not 
 more pleasant, to Captain Nott than to us — and of the wild 
 confusion of single-rank cavalry when surprised; and of 
 Bischoff's holding the Captain's stirrup under lire; — how 
 like Hover and the " Yierte Missouri/' that ! — and of 
 Bischoff's gamey little black horse, bringing him through 
 a tight place, just as Miss Pussy has done for you. 
 
 And the skirmish over the piano, with Miss Ayres ; how 
 like it is to what I've so often seen from you and the other 
 young ones of the staff. 
 
 It seems at first rather odd that a book originally written 
 for school children should be so exactly the book which is 
 most interesting to men — even to those who have served — 
 but it is precisely those little details, which one would think 
 of writing only for children, which give to all the clearest 
 idea of the realities of military life, and which best recall 
 the daily pleasures, trials and anxieties of a campaign, 
 when graver events have dimmed our recollection of them. 
 
 I am sure that I am sending you material for a few hours' 
 pleasant reading in camp, and I trust to Captain Nott to 
 turn your memory back to the companionship and the in- 
 cidents of the months which we passed together, in the val- 
 ley of the Obion Eiver. 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 George E. Waring, Jr. 
 To Capt. HuNN Hanson-, A. D. C. 
 
 H'd Q'rs Sixteenth Army Corps, Mobile Bay. 
 
 Colonel 'Nott furnishes us with the following interest- 
 ing addition to Colonel Waring's letter : 
 
 When Colonel Waring was writing to Captain Han- 
 
INTRODUCTION" XI 
 
 son it was not necessary that he should tell his friend and 
 fellow-soldier something that he already knew. But in a 
 conversation after the war Colonel Waring told me the fol- 
 lowing little story, a story of which it may be said that 
 "truth is often stranger than fiction." 
 
 But first I must tell you that I left Tennessee deeply grate- 
 ful to the three farmers who had risked their lives for me, 
 as told in the chapter entitled "The Escape/' and earnestly 
 desirous of doing something that might be of service to 
 them. This book was then in the publisher's hands, and 
 it occurred to me that when it should come out, it might 
 help these men to establish their loyalty if they should ever 
 need to do so. Suspicion reigned in the border States; 
 mistakes were sometimes made, and it was not impossible 
 for good Union men to be arrested and shot by good Union 
 soldiers. At the least it would be a great thing in the quiet, 
 uneventful lives of these three noble, simple-hearted men to 
 see their names in print, and to know that in that great, 
 far-away, tumultuous New York the story of what they 
 had done for the "stranger-officer" should be printed and 
 published, not in a mere newspaper, but actually in a book. 
 Moreover I was under orders which would carry me by 
 sea to Louisiana, and this was the only thing I could do 
 for the men. 
 
 But publishing the story in New York was one thing, and 
 getting copies of the book sent into a remote rural district 
 in Tennessee was another. The "U. S. MaiP did not run 
 then into hostile territory and the three men were not great 
 men, well-known men, but poor, unknown farmers, whose 
 modest homes did not front on great thoroughfares, but 
 were hidden away in retired nooks and approached only by 
 grass-grown bridle-paths. The books might start upon their 
 
Xll INTEODUCTION 
 
 journey, but it was most unlikely that tliey would ever 
 reach their journey's end. It seemed a waste of books to 
 send them. However, I thought I must do the best I 
 could and leave the result with Providence. 
 
 The *^^best I could" was to charge the publisher to put up 
 three copies of the book separately addressed to the three 
 men and to send them in one package by express to the 
 U. S. Quartermaster at Cairo, Illinois. I also wrote a let- 
 ter to the Quartermaster (whom I did not know), telling 
 him how much I owed to the three men, and begging him, 
 if any expedition or scouting party should be going into 
 that part of the country, that he would send the books by 
 some trusty officer and ask him to leave them with at least 
 one of the three. I then left New York for Louisiana, the 
 war-wave rose higher, carrying me resistlessly along, and 
 I never heard of the books ; whether they reached the three 
 men, whether they reached the Quartermaster, whether they 
 even started from New York, was unknown to me when 
 Colonel Waring told this story. 
 
 On the day to which Colonel Waring alludes in his letter 
 to Captain Hanson, his regiment, after a long march, had 
 gone into camp, and as night approached were in the more 
 or less nervous state in which soldiers often are who believe 
 that the enemy is near them, but don't know where, 
 and don't know how strong. The element of uncertainty 
 sometimes makes even veterans nervous. Accordingly, 
 when these three farmers in their Southern "butternut" 
 suits came into the camp, the sentry who received them 
 called the corporal of the guard and whispered that he 
 "wouldn't wonder if they were spies ; it would be just like 
 the enemy, if they were going to make a night-attack, to 
 send in spies to find out where to make it." The corporal 
 
INTEODUCTION Xlll 
 
 of the guard reported to the officer of the day that "three 
 men had been arrested as spies" ; and the officer of the day 
 reported to Colonel Waring that "three spies had been 
 caught and were now under arrest." 
 
 Colonel Waring was in no mood for tolerating spies — 
 certainly not for tolerating spies who would sneak into 
 camp at nightfall to find out the lay of the land and then 
 sneak out and tell the enemy how he could best make a 
 night-attack. He ordered the three men to be brought be- 
 fore him and he thought that it might be his unpleasant 
 duty to tell them when they came that they would have a 
 drum-head court martial in an hour, and if found guilty, 
 be shot at daybreak. 
 
 The three men were not glib talkers. Their dress, their 
 speech, their drawl betra3^ed unmistakably that they were 
 Southerners. Colonel Waring's suspicions were intensified, 
 and his questions grew ominously searching. 
 
 "Was there no one who could testify to their being 
 Union r 
 
 "No, 'tweren't safe to tell folks where they lived that you 
 were a Union man." 
 
 "Then they could not call one witness to establish a good 
 Union character?" 
 
 "No, the men they trusted and who could vouch for 
 them were all hiding out in the brush." 
 
 "What were they doing so far from home? Had they 
 any business here, and if so, what was it ?" 
 
 "No, they had no business here, and they were here be- 
 cause they had been lying out in the brush, too, and 
 thought they^d be safer if they came in and got among 
 Union soldiers." 
 
 "And they had come in not knowing any officer or soldier 
 
XIV INTKODUCTION 
 
 in the regiment, and not even knowing what regiment it 
 was ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Had they no certificate or pass from any Union officer 
 sliowing that they were Unionists ?" 
 
 "No ; they'd never had occasion to get a pass ; they'd never 
 been into Paducah or Cairo. They'd just stayed at home 
 and minded their business, and had never asked any officer 
 for a certificate; hadn't even supposed that they would 
 want one." 
 
 Then Colonel Waring summed up the case: "They had 
 no certificate, no pass, no witness, no proof of any kind; 
 they had avoided going to Paducah or Cairo, where the 
 Union forces were, and had never done one thing to help 
 the Union cause or to help Union soldiers ?" 
 
 "Yes, they had; they had helped a Union officer escape, 
 time Jeff Thompson's troops raided in here." 
 
 "Where is that officer?" 
 
 "Oh, he was a long ways off ; he got hurt, and had never 
 come back to this part of the country." 
 
 Then came the saving question. Incredulously, and to 
 make the prisoners' case complete against themselves. 
 Colonel Waring asked, ^'What was Ms nameT* 
 
 "Captain Nott." 
 
 ''Captain NoUT echoed Colonel Waring. 
 
 "Yes. He wrote a book about the war and told all about 
 his escape and how we three men helped him ; and he sent, 
 each of us, one ; and if you ever come over our way I'd like 
 you should see it." 
 
 "And he sent me one," said Colonel Waring, "and I 
 know all about you three men; and he was a captain in 
 this regiment; and it takes my breath away when I think 
 that you three men, one and all, should wander into this 
 regiment for protection and be mistaken for spies !" 
 
INTEODUCTION' XV 
 
 ^^ell, it is a kind of strange," said the man. 
 
 The trooper who had brought the men to the headquar- 
 ters^ bivouac still stood on duty with his sabre drawn 
 straining his ears to hear what he could hear, and a hun- 
 dred men kept their eyes turned in the same direction, ex- 
 pecting momentarily to see the three prisoners marched 
 back under sentence of death or something like it. But 
 they saw — and they could hardly believe their eyes when 
 they saw it — they saw their commanding officer seize each 
 prisoner by the hand and shake it as heartily as if the 
 owner were his dearest friend, and the sentry heard him 
 say, "You men must stay here and have your supper with 
 me. It won't be much of a supper, but it shall be the best 
 this regiment can give you." 
 
 The little book had done its work ! 
 Princeton, N. J., December, 1910. C. C. NOTT. 
 
 Some years later, in 1882, a German officer, Lieuten- 
 ant Hermann von Hoff, while studying the English 
 language, met with an extract from the "Sketches of 
 the War" in Mnnde's "Anglo-American Progressive 
 Reader." The book was primarily intended for young 
 Americans, and was not a military work in an officer's 
 sense of the term, yet the pictures of the great American 
 war so interested the trained Prussian soldier that he 
 sent to America for it and with great difficulty procured 
 a second-hand copy, which in 1883 he translated into 
 German and published under the title of Krieg Scenen. 
 Thus these sketches of our Civil War, which for years 
 had been out of print in America, were purchased by 
 American tourists in booksellers' shops in Berlin. 
 
XVI INTRODUCTION 
 
 With the testimonials of two such officers, the one an 
 eye-witness of such scenes are those described and the 
 other an unprejudiced soldier in a foreign land, the pub- 
 lisher believes that these well-attested pictures of the 
 War should be again placed in view of the American 
 public. 
 
 Part of a letter printed in the Evening Post, I^ew 
 York: 
 
 In 1861 Mr. Nott was a Trustee in one of the downtown 
 public schools, was deeply interested in its success and wel- 
 fare, and often took part in the opening exercises. At the 
 outbreak of the War he promptly enlisted, receiving a com- 
 mission in a regiment of cavalry, and went directly to the 
 front. Soon after he commenced to write a series of letters 
 to the School telling of his personal experiences and of the 
 events of the campaign. These were read as they were re- 
 ceived, by the principals of the several departments, to the 
 assembled classes; and his vivid and always graceful ac- 
 counts of these early movements of our army were listened 
 to with rapt attention by teachers and pupils alike, for he 
 was greatly esteemed by everybody. Incidentally he often 
 referred to a fine and intelligent horse, which he had picked 
 up in Temiessee. One sad day it was announced that Mr. 
 Nott had been wounded in battle, and would never return 
 again. With this intelligence the school was dismissed, and 
 the news was received with unaffected sorrow. 
 
 Fortunately, however, the first news was the worst. He 
 was indeed wounded, and a friend and fellow-trustee at 
 once started after him, found him in hospital, and when 
 
INTRODUCTION xvii 
 
 he was convalescent brought him home again, and with 
 him his famous horse. 
 
 It was a great day for the school when one morning 
 Captain Nott appeared on the platform, tall and stately 
 as ever, but thin and pale, with his arm in a sling, and 
 received as warm a welcome as a lot of school boys can give. 
 He told them briefly of his mishap, recovery and home- 
 ward journey, and, what was of the greatest interest, that 
 his charger was at the moment in the school-yard, and that 
 he had secured permission for all to go down and inspect 
 him, which they at once proceeded to do with much enthusi- 
 asm. 
 
 Captain Nott's letters were so much sought after that 
 they were shortly afterward published as Sketches of the 
 War and were widely read, as they were among the first 
 contributions to the literature of the time, and had a deep 
 interest for many outside of the circle of teachers and 
 pupils to whom the volume was dedicated. 
 
 Captain Nott afterwards received his colonelcy for bravery 
 in the fieJd, married a daughter of Mark Hopkins, president 
 of Williams College, and now for many years has been Pre- 
 siding Justice of the Court of Claims at Washington. The 
 writer, though following his career with interest, has never 
 seen him since the day he made his dramatic return to the 
 school. 
 New York, Nov. 21, 1889. 
 
 "One of the Boys."* 
 
 *The wi'iter was Mr. Walter Howe. 
 
SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 DONELSON 
 
 SOME letters from 'New York have said "If you 
 are ever in battle, do describe it." In this curi- 
 osity I have myself shared, and have always longed to 
 know not only how the scene appeared, but how the 
 spectator felt. I am able now to answer the question, 
 and in so doing I will try to describe to you precisely 
 how the attack appeared to me, without entering into 
 an account of anything but what I saw, and how I 
 felt. 
 
 It was by accident that I was at Fort Donelson, and 
 with the attacking column. My regiment left me at 
 St. Louis attending a court-martial. The court ad- 
 journed soon afterward, and then, with another mem- 
 ber, an officer of the Fourteenth Iowa, I started for 
 Fort Henry. 
 
 We descended the Mississippi to the narrow point 
 where the Ohio joins it, and on which are the fortifica- 
 tions of Cairo. At Cairo there were no boats, save 
 those of the government, conveying troops, and on one 
 of these we went. It was the McGill, and on board 
 was the regiment which was to lead the assault at Fort 
 Donelson, the Second Iowa. 
 
 Up to the time of starting we supposed that the 
 destination of the boat was Fort Henry, on the Tennes- 
 
^ SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 see. It was then announced, Fort Donelson on the 
 Cumberland. We glided slowly up the Ohio, against 
 its swollen current, and passed the mouth of the Ten- 
 nessee during the night. I arose with the first gleam 
 of light, and went on deck to find that we had entered 
 the Cumberland. It seemed a narrow river, winding 
 amid wooded hills and banks covered with noble oaks. 
 The soldiers, who had passed the warm, moonlit night 
 on deck, were rising one by one, folding blankets and 
 packing knapsacks. I turned from them to the river, 
 and looked curiously for the people who dwelt in this, 
 the rebel part of Kentucky. 
 
 For a short time there was nothing but woods. Then 
 a little log house appeared upon the bank, a shed be- 
 side it, with its single horse and cow. It was a humble 
 home, and hardly worth a second glance, a hundred 
 such might be seen on the banks of any river; but in 
 front of the door stood a sturdy little flag-staff, and 
 from it waved the Stars and Stripes. The family had 
 risen at the sound of the steamer. The mother stood 
 in the doorway, holding an infant, and waving an 
 apron. A little girl near by timidly tossed her hood 
 around her head. Two ragged boys at the water's 
 edge swung their caps joyfully. The father stood on 
 a stump, hurrahing alone but lustily; and over them, 
 in the dim grey light, fluttered their little flag. "They 
 mean it," "They are honest," "There's no make-believe 
 there," were the exclamations of the soldiers, as they 
 crowded to the side of the boat and answered the father 
 
DONELSON^ 3 
 
 and his bojs with their louder cheers. This was the 
 first house we saw, and the warmest welcome we re- 
 ceived; for though many hats were waved to us dur- 
 ing the day, and a few flags shown, none equalled in 
 their manifest sincerity the inmates of the little log 
 house. 
 
 The day was soft and beautiful. We passed it upon 
 the upper deck, laughing, chatting and watching the 
 shifting scenery of the winding river. A pleasure ex- 
 cursion it seemed to all; and again and again some one 
 would remark ^'We may be on the brink of battle, yet it 
 seems as though we were travelling for pleasure." 
 
 Among the rough exteriors which campaigning gives, 
 two officers of the Second were remarkable for their 
 neat appearance. Some jokes were made at their ex- 
 pense, calling them the dandies of the regiment, and 
 their state-rooms the band-boxes ; and it was agreed 
 that they were too handsome to be spoilt by scars. Two 
 days afterward one of these. Captain Sleighmaker, fell 
 at the head of his company, heroically charging the 
 rebel breastworks. A little later, as I was galloping 
 for the surgeons, I passed a wounded officer, borne by 
 four soldiers in a blanket. As I rode by he called out, 
 "We have carried the day. Captain." I looked around 
 and saw it was the other, Major Chipman. "Are you 
 badly hurt. Major ?" I said, pulling up my horse. "J^o, 
 not badly," he answered. "Don't stop for me;" and 
 when the surgeon arrived he refused to have his wound 
 dressed, and sent him to his men. 
 
4 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 In the afternoon we overtook twenty steamboats laden 
 with troops, and led by four black gunboats. They 
 moved slowly and kept together, as if they feared ap- 
 proaching danger. Then came a change of weather, 
 and night closed in upon us dark and dreary, with cold 
 and snow. 
 
 When the next morning broke I found we had made 
 fast to the western shore. On either bank were high 
 and wooded hills. The gunboats lay anchored in the 
 middle of the stream, all signs of life hidden beneath 
 their dark decks, save the white steam that slowly issued 
 from their pipes, and floated gracefully away. Far 
 down the river could be seen the troop-laden trans- 
 ports, moored to the trees along the bank. The sky 
 was clear and bright; the forest sparkled with snow, 
 and the warm waters of the river smoked in the frosty 
 air. Such a picture I have never seen — never shall 
 see again. As the troops began to debark, the band 
 of the Second Iowa came out on the upper deck, and 
 the dear "Star-spangled" echoed along the river. The 
 men beat time, and hurrahed as the notes died 
 away. 
 
 The place of landing was about three miles below 
 Fort Donelson. I may here say that the fort itself is 
 about half as large as the Battery, but that it is only 
 a corner of a large square of earthworks stretching 
 some two miles on each side. To avoid the cannon 
 on the works it was necessary for us to make a circuit 
 of several miles. The country was woods, high hills 
 
DONELSON 5 
 
 and deep ravines. A glen that we entered after leav- 
 ing the river bore a strange resemblance to one on my 
 father's farm. As I looked around I could almost be- 
 lieve it was the same through which, on just such 
 bright winter mornings, I had driven the wood-sleigh 
 or wandered with my gun. But the troops were march- 
 ing, and I had no time to grow homesick. We passed, 
 in the course of our march, a little log house. I went 
 up to the door and spoke to the people. They seemed 
 sad and dispirited. There had been firing between the 
 pickets a day or two before, and a shower of balls had 
 pattered around the house. The woman said she 
 wished she were forty miles away, and the man said 
 he would not care if he were a hundred. 
 
 A little girl was near the door, and I asked her what 
 was her name, to which she replied, after a good deal 
 of embarrassment, ^'i^ancy Ann." I let i^ancy Ann 
 look through my spyglass; and, as she had never seen 
 or even heard of one before, she was very much aston- 
 ished. IN^ancy Ann's mother thereupon became quite 
 hospitable and invited me to come in and rest, but the 
 column was then well nigh over the hill and I had to 
 push on. 
 
 At last we reached the position assigned to us, and 
 here we found the Fourteenth Iowa, to which jny friend 
 belonged, and with it I determined to remain until I 
 could find my own regiment. 
 
 Around us were thick woods. A deep glen ran in 
 front, and beyond this, along the brow of the opposite 
 
6 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 hill, ran those earthworks of the rebels which we were 
 to win. 
 
 It was less than half a mile across ; and occasionally 
 a rifle ball fell near us, but the distance was too great 
 for them to be effective. I looked through the trees 
 and examined the hill with my glass, but could see 
 nothing save the ridge of fresh-turned earth. Along 
 the side of the hill were our sharpshooters watching 
 the works. I could see them crawling up behind trees 
 and stumps, sometimes dragging themselves along the 
 ground, sometimes on their hands and knees. Their 
 shots were frequent, and sounded as though a sporting 
 party were below us. It was hard to believe that they 
 were shooting at men. It was wonderful, too, how 
 soon the mind accustomed itself to these strange cir- 
 cumstances. After the first half hour we took no more 
 notice of the rifle shots than though some boys were 
 there at play. Behind those earthworks were cannon 
 as well as men. We were completely within range, and 
 they could have sent their shot and shell amongst us 
 at any time. The night before no fires had been al- 
 lowed, as they would indicate our position to the rebels ; 
 but they were now burning, and around one of them 
 three or four of us gathered to dine. As we sat down 
 upon a log we heard distant sounds of cannon along 
 the river. ^'There go the gunboats ; the fight has begun ; 
 they are shelling the rascals out," said everybody. We 
 had taken for granted all the time, and, indeed, up to 
 the last minute, that the gunboats would dismantle the 
 
DONELSOI^ 7 
 
 fort, and that all we should have to do would be to 
 prevent the escape of the rebels. In this we were much 
 mistaken. The cannonade lasted an hour, and then 
 stopped. We hoj^ed the fort was taken, but no such 
 news came to gladden us. 
 
 In watching the earthworks, in talking and warming 
 ourselves at the camp-fires, the afternoon wore away. 
 Evening came, and it was determined to risk the fires. 
 Again we sat down beside one for supper. It consisted 
 of hard pilot-bread, raw pork and coffee. The coffee 
 you probably would not recognize in 'New York. Boiled 
 in an open kettle and about the color of a brown stone 
 front, it was nevertheless our greatest comfort, and the 
 only warm thing we had. The pork was frozen, and 
 the water in the canteens solid ice, so that we had to 
 hold them over the fire when we wanted a drink. ISTo 
 one had plates or spoons, knives or forks, cups or sau- 
 cers. We cut off the frozen pork with our pocket knives, 
 and one tin cup, from which each took a drink in turn, 
 served the coffee. 
 
 It grew darker; the camp-fires burned brightly, and 
 no threatening shot or shell had come from the Fort. 
 Our sharpshooters and sentinels were between us and 
 the rebels ; and it was determined that we might sleep. 
 The men stacked their arms, and wrapped themselves 
 in their blankets around the fires. This w^as my first 
 night out. Hitherto my quarters had been in houses ; 
 I had not even passed a night in a tent. A life among 
 the comforts of New York is not a good preparative for 
 
8 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 the field. I had looked forward to a tent at this season 
 with some little anxiety, but I was now to begin with- 
 out even that shelter. My water-proof blanket and 
 buffalo skin were also on board the steamer, so that I 
 had to trust to the better fortune of my friends for 
 these. We managed to find four blankets, two of them 
 were wet and frozen, and a buffalo skin. The snow 
 was scraped away from the windward side of the fire, 
 and the two frozen blankets were laid on the ground — 
 a log was rolled up for a wind-break, and the buffalo 
 spread over the blankets. On this four of us were 
 stretched, and very close and straight we had to lie. 
 It fared ill with the trappings of military life; hand- 
 some great-coats were ignominiously rolled up like 
 horse-blankets, and my beautiful sabre (the gift of 
 !N^orth Moore Street friends), ordinarily stained by no 
 speck of rust or drop of rain, was tossed out in the 
 snow with pistols and spyglasses, used in camp with 
 the same gentle treatment. 
 
 For a few minutes I kept awake; the rebels were 
 but fifteen minutes distant, and if they chose to make a 
 night attack their shells might burst among us at any 
 moment. The snow-flakes began to fall faster and 
 faster. I slipped my head under the blanket and fell 
 asleep. I can imagine that you will say we were to 
 be pitied; but never did I sleep more sweetly. Soon 
 after midnight the sound of cannon roused us. The 
 snow was three inches deep upon our blankets, yet we 
 were comfortable, and surprised to find it lying there. 
 
DONELSOiq' 9 
 
 The ground, however, had thawed beneath us; and 
 when we rose, the snow crept in among our blankets 
 and wet them. Lying down was out of the question; 
 we bent down a couple of saplings and spread blankets 
 over them, making a little shed. Under this we crept, 
 after piling plenty of wood upon our fire. The sol- 
 dier's invariable comfort — his pipe — was at hand, and 
 thus we chatted, smoked and dozed till daylight. 
 
II 
 
 THE ASSAULT 
 
 THE sun of Saturday rose bright and clear, and 
 more than one asked if it were an omen for us, 
 or for the foe. The morning passed as did the day 
 before; but about noon word came up that far down 
 on our right the rebels had attempted to cut their way 
 out. They w^ere driven back, but the fight was bloody, 
 and it was said we had lost five hundred men. We 
 were warned to be watchful — it was thought they might 
 re-attempt it near us. I have said we were in front 
 of a large glen or ravine ; on our right were numerous 
 regiments, making a chain which stretched to the river. 
 On our left was the Second Iowa. This was all that 
 I had seen of our position, and consequently is all that' 
 I shall describe now, inasmuch as I am giving it to 
 you precisely as it appeared to me. Soon a mounted 
 orderly rode by, who told us that a large body of rebels 
 were moving up opposite us. Our men were called 
 together, and stood near their stacked arms. A little 
 while and General Smith and his staff came up — they 
 passed by in front of us, but said nothing. At the 
 same time the sharpshooters along the glen were un- 
 usually active, and there were repeated shots by them. 
 We thought they saw the rebels mustering behind the 
 breastworks. Everything seemed to indicate a sally 
 
THE ASSAULT 11 
 
 from the rebels, and that we were to drive them back 
 as they had been driven back in the morning. The 
 men took their arms, officers loosened their pistol hol- 
 sters. I hooked np my cavalry sabre, unbuttoned my 
 great coat so that I could quickly throw it off, and took 
 my place beside the lieutenant-colonel with whom I 
 was to act. Then there came a painful, unpleasant 
 pause ; we heard nothing — saw nothing — yet knew that 
 something was coming ; what that something was no one 
 could tell. A messenger came from the general — we 
 were to move to the left and support the Second Iowa. 
 We supposed the rebels were crossing a little higher up, 
 and that the gap between us and the Second was to be 
 closed. The colonel gave the order ^'left face,'' "for- 
 ward march," and the regiment passed along through 
 the thick trees in a column of two abreast. But the 
 Second were not where they had been in the morning; 
 w^e marched on, but did not come to them. In a few 
 moments we passed their camp-fires — a few more, and 
 we emerged on an open field. 
 
 At a glance, the real object of the movement was 
 apparent. It came upon us in an instant, like the 
 lifting of a curtain. The Fourteenth were hurrying 
 down through the field. The Second, in a long line, 
 were struggling up the opposite hill, where two glens 
 met and formed a ridge. It was high and steep, slip- 
 pery with mud and melted snow. At the top, the 
 breastworks of the rebels flashed and smoked, w^hilst 
 to the right and left, up either glen, cannon were thun- 
 
12 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 dering. The attempt seemed desperate. Down througli 
 the field we went, and began to climb the hill. At the 
 very foot I found we were in the line of fire. Rifle 
 balls hissed over ns, and bleeding men lay npon the 
 ground or were dragging themselves down the hill. 
 From the foot to the breastworks the Second Iowa left 
 a long line of dead and wounded upon the ground. 
 The sight of these was the most appalling part of the 
 scene, and for a moment completely diverted my atten- 
 tion from the firing. A third of the way up we came 
 tmder the fire of the batteries. The shot, and more 
 especially the shell, came with the rushing, clashing 
 of a locomotive on a railroad. You heard the boom of 
 the cannon up the ravine — then the sound of the shell 
 — and then felt it rushing at you. At the top of the 
 hill the firearms sounded like bundles of immense pow- 
 der crackers. They would go r-r-r-r-rap; then came 
 the scattered shots, rap, rap — rap-rap, rap; then some 
 more fired together, rrrrrrap. This resemblance was 
 so striking that it impressed me at the moment. 
 
 The bursting of the shells produced much less effect 
 — apparent effect, I mean — than I anticipated. Their 
 explosion, too, was much like a large powder cracker 
 thrown in the air. There was a loud bang — fragments 
 flew about, and all was over. It was so quickly done 
 that you had no time to anticipate or think — ^you were 
 killed or you were safe, and it was over. But the most 
 dispiriting thing was that we saw no enemy. The bat- 
 teries were out of sight, and at the breastworks noth- 
 
THE ASSAULT 13 
 
 ing could be seen but fire and smoke. It seemed as 
 though we were attacking some invisible power, and 
 that it was a simple question of time whether we could 
 climb that slippery steep before we were all shot or 
 not. But suddenly the firing at the summit ceased. 
 The Second Iowa had charged the works, and driven 
 out the regiments which held them. Then came the 
 fire of the Second upon our fiying foes, and then loud 
 shouts along the line, ^'Hurrah, hurrah, the Second are 
 in — hurry up, boys, and support them — close up — for- 
 ward — forward.'' We reached the top and scrambled 
 over the breastwork. I saw a second hill rising grad- 
 ually before us, and on the top of it a second breast- 
 work — between us and it about four hundred yards of 
 broken ground. A second fire opened upon us from 
 these inner works. We were ordered back, and recross- 
 ing those we had taken, lay down upon the outer side 
 of the embankment. 
 
 The breastwork that had sheltered the enemy now 
 sheltered us. It was about six feet high on our side, 
 and the men laid close against it. Occasionally a hat 
 was pushed up above it, and then a rifle ball would 
 come whistling over us from the second intrenchment. 
 The batteries also continued to fire, but the shot passed 
 lower down the hill, and did little execution. Having 
 no specific duty to discharge, I turned, as soon as our 
 troops reached the breastworks, and gave my aid to 
 the wounded. 
 
 A singular fact for which I could not account was, 
 
14 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 that those near the foot of the hill were struck in the 
 legs; higher up, the shots had gone through the body, 
 and near the breastworks, through the head. Indeed, 
 at the top of the hill I noticed no wounded; all who 
 lay upon the ground there were dead. A little house 
 in the field was used as a hospital. I tore my handker- 
 chief into strips, and tied them round the wounds which 
 were bleeding badly, and made the men hold snow upon 
 them. I then took a poor fellow in my arms to carry 
 to the little house. ^'Throw down your gun," I said, 
 "you are too weak to carry it." "ISTo, no," he replied, 
 "I will hold on to it as long as I am alive." The house 
 happened to be in the exact line of one of the batteries, 
 and as we approached it the shot flew over our path. 
 Fortunately the house was below the range, but one 
 came so low as to knock off a shingle from the gable end. 
 For a few minutes we thought they were firing on the 
 wounded. We had no red flag to display ; but I found 
 a man with a red handkerchief, and tied it to a stick, 
 and sent him on the roof with it. Within the house 
 there were but three surgeons at this time. One of 
 them asked me to take his horse and ride for the instru- 
 ments, ambulances and assistants; for no preparations 
 had been made. It was then I passed Major Chipman 
 carried by his soldiers. 
 
 When I returned the ambulances were busy at their 
 work; numerous couples of soldiers were supporting 
 off wounded friends, and occasionally came four, car- 
 rying one in a blanket. The wounded men generally 
 
THE ASSAULT 15 
 
 showed the greatest heroism. Thej hardly ever alluded 
 to themselves, but shouted to the artillery that we met 
 to hurry forward, and told stragglers that we had car- 
 ried the day. One poor boy, carried in the arms of two 
 soldiers, had his foot knocked off by a shell ; it dangled 
 horribly from his limb by a piece of skin, and the 
 bleeding stump was uncovered. I stopped to tell the 
 men to tie his stocking round the limb, and to put snow 
 upon the wound. ^'I^ever mind the foot, Captain,'' 
 said he, "we drove the rebels out, and have got their 
 trench, that's the most I care about." Yet I confess 
 the sights and sounds were not as distressing as I an- 
 ticipated. The small round bullet holes, though they 
 might be mortal, looked no larger than a surgeon's lancet 
 might have made. Only once did I hear distressing 
 groans. A poor wretch in an ambulance shrieked when- 
 ever the wheels struck a stump. There was no help for 
 it. The road was through the wood, the driver could 
 only avoid the trees, and drive on regardless of his 
 agony. 
 
 You will perhaps ask how I felt in the fight. There 
 was nothing upon which I had had so much curiosity 
 as to what my feelings would be. Much to my surprise 
 I found myself unpleasantly cool. I did not get ex- 
 cited, and felt a great want of something to do. I 
 thought if I only had something — my o^vn company to 
 lead on, or somebody to order, I should have much less 
 to think about. There seemed such a certainty of being 
 hit that I felt certain I should be, and after a few 
 
16 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 minutes had a vague sort of wish that it would come 
 if it were coming, and be over with. The alarming 
 effect of the bullets and shells was less than I supposed 
 it would be, and my strongest sensation of danger was 
 produced by the sight of the dead and wounded. The 
 thing I was most afraid of was a panic among our 
 men, and when the Seventh Illinois was ordered to fall 
 back down the hill, I so much feared that the men might 
 deem it a retreat that I entirely forgot the firing, and 
 walked down in front of them talking to their major, 
 so that any frightened man in the ranks might be re- 
 assured by our "matter of course" air. Take it alto- 
 gether, I think I felt and acted pretty much as I do 
 in any unusual and exciting affair. I know I found 
 myself looking for an illustration of the effect of the 
 shells, and wondering if there was no greater and 
 grander illustration of the musketry than a bunch of 
 powder crackers. I remember that I did little things 
 from habit, as usual; when I threw off my overcoat, 
 for example, I took a pipe which a friend had given 
 me from the pocket, lest it should be lost; and I re- 
 member that I once corrected my grammar when I in- 
 advertently adopted the Western style of telling the 
 men to lay down, and as I did so, I thought that one 
 or two people at North Moore Street would have been 
 very apt to laugh if they had heard it. Yet for all 
 this I was by no means unconscious of danger. Some 
 officers seemed utterly indifferent to it. Thus, in the 
 fight of Thursday, Colonel Shaw of the Fourteenth, 
 
THE ASSAULT 17 
 
 after ordering his men to lie down, not only remained 
 on horseback, but crossed his legs over the pommel of 
 the saddle, sitting sidewise to be more comfortable. The 
 sharpshooters of the enemy concentrated their fire on 
 him, he being the only person visible. As the bullets 
 thickened about him, the colonel said indignantly, 
 "Those rascals are firing at me, I shall have to move," 
 and he threw his leg back and walked his horse down 
 to the other end of the line. 
 
 Our men lay in the trench all night, exposed to the 
 western wind, which blew keenly round the summit of 
 the hill — a large force of the enemy within a few yards, 
 able to rush upon them at any moment. 
 
 I had gone back just after dark, with the adjutant, 
 who had been hurt by the explosion of a shell, and my 
 return with him saved me this. When morning came 
 we went back. As we reached the foot of the hill we 
 were told that a white flag had been displayed, and an 
 ofiicer had gone into the fort, but that the time was 
 nearly up, and the attack was now to be renewed. We 
 hurried on, expecting in a few moments to be in a sec- 
 ond assault. We had nearly reached the trenches, when 
 the men sprang from the ditch to the top of the breast- 
 work, waving the colors and giving wild hurrahs. The 
 fort had surrendered. 
 
 There was a load lifted off my mind, and I stopped 
 to look around. The first glance fell on the blue coats 
 scattered through the felled trees and stumps. The 
 march of our troops up the hill had been somewhat in 
 the form of a broom. Until near the top they had 
 
18 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 been in column, leaving a long, narrow line like the 
 handle, and as thej rushed at the breastwork, they had 
 spread out like a broom. This ground was plainly 
 marked by the dead. ISTow that my attention was given, 
 I was surprised to find how many were strewn upon 
 the narrow strip. Here was one close to me; about 
 the width of a class-room beyond was another; a little 
 farther on two had fallen side by side. In a little tri- 
 angle I counted eighteen bodies, and many I knew had 
 been carried off during the night. Still the scene was 
 not so painful as the dead-room of the hospital at St. 
 Louis. The attitudes were peaceful. The arms were 
 in all but one case thrown naturally over the breast, as 
 in sleep ; and no face gave any indication of a painful 
 death. I passed on and entered the breastwork. It was 
 about the height of a man. On top was a large log, 
 and between the log and the earthwork a narrow slit. 
 Through this they had fired on us. The log had hid- 
 den their heads, so that while we were in plain view, 
 they were to us an invisible foe. Immediately within 
 were six more bodies of the Second Iowa, and one in 
 simple homespun. He was the only one of the enemy 
 upon the ground. The soldiers, gathering around him, 
 looked, as I did myself, with some curiosity upon one 
 who had thus met the punishment of his treason. He 
 had been shot through the back of the head while run- 
 ning, and his face expressed only wonderment and 
 fright. It showed him a country-bred youth, illiterate, 
 uncultivated — a contrast to the still intelligent faces 
 that lay around him. 
 
THE ASSAULT 19 
 
 Meanwhile our troops were forming along the hill 
 to take possession of the fort. All voices declared that 
 the Second Iowa should lead. As it moved past the 
 other regiments to the head of the column, the men 
 cheered them, and the officers uncovered; but they 
 seemed sad and wearied. I looked along their line, 
 and found of the officers I knew hardly one was 
 there. 
 
 It was a beautiful sight to see regiment after regi- 
 ment mount the second breastwork, and watch them 
 successively halt and cheer, and wave their colors as 
 they crossed. I pushed on, scrambled over it, and found 
 myself in the midst of five hundred of the prisoners. 
 They were strange figures, in white blanket or carpet 
 coats, having the same unintelligent faces as the one 
 who had been killed outside. I stared at them, and 
 they at me. They looked crestfallen and confused, but 
 showed little feeling; and during the day I saw but 
 few faces of common soldiers that awakened any pity. 
 They, poor fellows, sat sadly looking at the scene. To 
 one of them I spoke. He said he had done nothing to 
 bring on the war ; he had been for the Union, and had 
 only enlisted a month before to avoid being impressed. 
 His family lived or had lived (he did not know where 
 they were now), within a mile, and he would give a 
 great, great deal to see them for only a minute. ^^Will 
 your officers let me write to tell them I am alive ?" 
 ^^To be sure they will." ^^And will we be furnished 
 with food?" "Yes, the same as our own soldiers." 
 "Most of our men expected, if we surrendered uncoii- 
 
20 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 ditionally, that yon would kill us." ^^You see we have 
 not done so." "No, they have treated us very kindly: 
 we have been deceived." Such was the tenor of our 
 conversation. I may here say that our men behaved 
 admirably; and I did not hear of a single indignity 
 being offered to any of our prisoners. A few sentinels 
 were placed around a regiment of prisoners, and so far 
 as appearances went, half of them might have escaped. 
 But the woods around the fort contained regiments of 
 our troops, and they knew the attempt would be hope- 
 less. We were assigned the quarters of the Fiftieth 
 Tennessee, and I slept in what had been the coloneFs. 
 It was a nice little house of oak blocks, laid up so that 
 the wood and bark alternated, giving a very pretty 
 tesselated appearance. They had all sorts of comforts, 
 which we had never even hoped for at Camp Benton; 
 and while we supposed they had been roughing it, found 
 we had been roughing it ourselves. 
 
 We invited the colonel and some of his officers to 
 spend the night with us. I confess they behaved with 
 dignity. They made no complaints, and submitted with 
 quiet resignation to their changed circumstances; but 
 they were Tennesseeans, and though they made no pro- 
 fessions in words, convinced us that they had been 
 Union men at heart and wished the Union back again. 
 One of us remarked, that if those who had been released 
 heretofore had not abused it and violated their pledges 
 and oaths, the prisoners at Fort Donelson would prob- 
 ably be released in the same way. The lieutenant- 
 colonel said he wished it could be so; he was confident 
 
THE ASSAULT 21 
 
 none of his men would be thus guilty. "But," he added, 
 "I don't blame the Government for sending us ISTorth; 
 I acknowledge that I am a rebel taken in arms, and it 
 is fully justiiied in treating me accordingly." 
 
 It was a novelty indeed, thus spending the evening 
 with our late opponents. We made no allusions that 
 could hurt their feelings, but talked over the events of 
 the siege until a late hour. They told us the surrender 
 was a thunder-clap to all. The men, and most of the 
 officers, had not seen how completely they were sur- 
 rounded, and had been made to believe that they were 
 successful. The evening before they were told this, and 
 in the morning it was announced that their generals 
 had run away, and they were prisoners of war. 
 
 I now began to look about me and feel a little of the 
 confusion that follows a battle. My trunk had been left 
 on the steamer, and the steamer had moved ; my blankets 
 had been left in a hospital tent, and the hospital tent 
 had disappeared; my regiment was fourteen miles off, 
 at Fort Henry ; the biscuit and coffee on which we had 
 lived were gone, and provisions had not followed us 
 into the fort. I procured a captured horse, and the next 
 morning started at daylight for Fort Henry. As I 
 passed a regiment in the woods, the commissary was 
 dealing out a biscuit and a handful of sugar to each 
 man for breakfast. He good-naturedly said he would 
 give me my share. After a long ride I found my men 
 camped in some woods, all well and bitterly disap- 
 pointed at not having been at Fort Donelson. 
 
Ill 
 
 FORAGING 
 
 IE^ this military life I find there is much quiet time, 
 when the hours pass slowly and the men yawn and 
 wish for something to do. With every change of camp 
 reading matter is lost or left behind; orders, too, have 
 been given that the quantity of baggage be reduced; 
 and here in Tennessee, newspapers and letters hardly 
 ever come. It is pleasant then, to sit as I do now, under 
 a tree in the warm sun, and talk with pencil and paper 
 to your distant friends. 
 
 My previous letters have had so much in them gloomy 
 or painful, that this time I will choose a more pleasant 
 subject, and give you an accoimt of my First Foraging. 
 
 Gipsy is the prettiest of horses. I should fail to 
 describe my excursion, if I failed to describe Gipsy. 
 Gipsy is one of those happy beings that everybody likes. 
 No one ever quarrels with her. She has never been 
 struck with a whip or touched by the spur, and knows 
 not what either means. The soldiers all know Gipsy, 
 and the Germans, who are always sociably inclined, 
 generally say as they pass her, "Good morning, Shipsy ;" 
 at which Shipsy looks as pleased as anybody could. 
 Gipsy is a small specimen of the Black Hawk race, jet 
 black in color, and almost as delicate and agile in form 
 
FORAGING Z6 
 
 as a greyhound, with the mischievous, restless eyes of 
 a bright terrier. 
 
 Gipsy has several feminine traits of character — a 
 good deal of vanity with a little affectation, and is 
 withal something of a flirt. Put on a common soldier's 
 bridle, and she goes very quietly; but change it for a 
 handsome brass-mounted one, and Gipsy tosses her head 
 as though the bridle were a new bonnet. If you say, 
 "Come here, Gipsy," Gipsy walks off the other way; 
 if you call her very loudly, Gipsy pricks up her ears, 
 and seems completely absorbed in some object half a 
 mile off; but walk away, and Gipsy puts up a piteous 
 whinny for you to come back and make it up. When 
 I am riding alone Gipsy generally does pretty much 
 as she pleases — now trotting, now cantering, now dash- 
 ing up hill on a gallop, her ears always pricked up, 
 and her bright eyes examining every object on the road. 
 When we come suddenly out of the woods upon a fine 
 prospect, Gipsy stops and looks it over with as much 
 interest as though she were a landscape painter. If 
 we come to a narrow stream, Gipsy (who greatly dis- 
 likes to wet her feet) stops again, looks deliberately up 
 and down, selects the narrowest place, and then, without 
 asking anybody's leave, proceeds there and bounds over. 
 When thus riding without a companion, I find it very 
 interesting to watch the beautiful intelligence of my 
 little mare. 
 
 On her arrival at Tort Henry Gipsy was greatly dis- 
 gusted with Tennessee. For the clear prairie fields of 
 
24 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 Missouri, she found nothing but thick woods, steep hills 
 and muddy roads — no chance for her to run races or 
 frolic here. For a week the rain has fallen steadily on 
 Gipsy; her water-proof blanket has kept her dry; but 
 she is knee-deep in mud, and has not lain down for 
 three nights. ISlo wonder she puts her ears back, and 
 tries to look sulky. But an order has come for me to 
 go with half the squadron and search for forage. The 
 saddle and bridle are brought from the tent, and Gipsy 
 brightens up at this sight. The men are soon ready; 
 the clouds break away ; the sun comes out ; Gipsy takes 
 her place at the head of the column and throws her heels 
 joyously in the air, champing the bit and tossing the 
 white foam over her jetty coat. 
 
 The road is but a bridle-path through woods. The 
 path is narrow, and the men must ride ^'by file." Per- 
 haps you do not know that ^^by file" means one behind 
 the other ; ^'by twos," two side by side ; and ^^by fours," 
 four side by side. The next formation is ^^by platoon," 
 or a quarter of a company ; and the next "by squadron," 
 or an entire company. We emerge on a small farm, 
 waste and desolate. Straggling soldiers have broken 
 into the house, and scattered about what few effects the 
 rebel owner left. It is the first deserted house I have 
 seen, and the sight is rather sad. Our road leads us 
 again into the woods, and then brings us into the valley 
 of the Tennessee, and follows the windings of the river. 
 We pass several farms, small and poorly cultivated, 
 with rude timber houses, by which I mean houses of 
 
FORAGING 
 
 25 
 
 squared logs. The chimneys are always built entirely 
 on the outside, and are generally of sticks and mud, 
 instead of bricks and mortar. Occasionally we halt to 
 ask questions. The people are not surly, but they do 
 not smile. This is the worst part of Tennessee, and it 
 is plain they have sons and brothers among the prison- 
 ers of Fort Donelson. But at one house the man comes 
 eagerly forward and his face lights ; his wife, too, comes 
 out, and says she almost hopes to see some face she 
 knows. They have lived long here, but the man is from 
 Eastern Tennessee, and the woman from Northern Ala- 
 bama — those two remnants of the South that hung to 
 the Union till the last. He tells us that the country 
 produces little besides pigs and corn. ''It is pork and 
 corn dodger,'' he says, ''at breakfast, dinner and tea 
 all the year round." I ask where they grind the corn, 
 and he mentions a large mill now despoiled by its owner, 
 who took himself off to Memphis, and a little mill some 
 three miles distant, owned by the "Widow Williams.'' 
 It is an object to have some corn meal, so I determine 
 to visit the Widow Williams' mill. The road to the mill 
 turns abruptly from the river, and goes up a brook. 
 We pass a few houses, scattered at intervals in the 
 woods. The road is so much better than the other, that 
 the men ride "by twos ;" and so it should be, for it is 
 the road from Dover to Paris. We pass one or two 
 houses whose owners are suspiciously young widows; 
 in other words, we suspect that their "deceased" hus- 
 bands are fighting with the rebels. At last we come to 
 
26 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 the Widow Williams, whom we do not suspect ; for she 
 is a grej-haired matron who has seen sorrow, and she 
 sits on the rude piazza with a family around her. The 
 girls look nervously at us, for we are the first troop of 
 soldiers they have had halt. The widow rises as I ride 
 up, and says, with a good deal of dignity, ''Please to 
 alight, gentlemen;" and I take her at her word, and 
 order ''dismount.'' I ask her if she can grind us some 
 meal, and she rises in our good opinion by saying, "Not 
 to-day, this is Sunday.'' It is indeed; but very little 
 like one to us ; we had almost forgotten the day. I then 
 buy a bushel of meal for my own men, and go down 
 with the widow's eldest son, who is a lad of fifteen, to 
 get the meal and view the mill — a tiny little affair, and 
 two of the men, who are millers, laugh when they see it. 
 On coming back to the house I find a group of the men 
 have made themselves quite agreeable. They have come 
 from the city, and doubtless are more refined and pol- 
 ished than any men these country girls have seen before. 
 The youngest is some ten years old, named Martha, 
 and I ask her if she is not afraid of us l^orthern mer- 
 cenaries. Martha says no ! and laughs at the idea ; but 
 when I ask her if we have not been called all sorts of 
 names, and if she has not been told that we would burn 
 her mother's house down, and cut her head off, Martha 
 blushes, and the older sisters look confused. It is evi- 
 dent that we have had a very bad name here, and that 
 they are now ashamed to own it. But we have a long 
 circuit to make; the meal is stowed away in the haver- 
 
FORAGING 27 
 
 sacks; Widow Williams invites us to call again, and 
 assures us we shall be welcome; I pretend to arrest 
 Martha, and carry her off as prisoner; at which she is 
 a little frightened and the rest a good deal amused; 
 and then ^'fall in," ^'mount," ^'march," and off we go. 
 Gipsy is the smallest horse in the regiment, but to-day 
 her feelings have been immense. She has borne herself 
 as much like General Washington's great charger as pos- 
 sible, and has champed the bit more fiercely and pranced 
 more proudly than even he did. Her front is white 
 with foam, and every look shows that she deems the 
 head of the column her proper place. Whenever any 
 horse has come within a respectful distance, Gipsy's 
 heels have flown higher than his head, admonishing 
 him that whatever happens, she must be first. But the 
 road, which has followed the bank, now crosses the 
 brook. There is no friendly bridge to lift us over — 
 the road leads dovni the bank, straight into the water. 
 That water is wider than Sixth Avenue, and the re- 
 cent rain has made it a roaring torrent, no one knows 
 how deep, and it splashes and dashes fearfully. Gipsy 
 looks up — looks down ; no narrow place appears for her 
 to bound over. Half of her airs and graces drop off 
 at the sight. She hesitates a moment — the tramp of 
 the horses behind tells her that she must decide quickly. 
 She screws her courage up, and marches heroically 
 down the bank. The first j)lunge, and the water dashes 
 up on her breast — it is a foot higher on one side than 
 the other, so swift is the current. It is cold and very 
 
28 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 wet — it roars louder than ever, and who can tell how 
 deep it is ahead ? Poor Gipsy ! the last of the airs and 
 graces are gone; so is her resolution. She wheels in- 
 gloriously round, and throws herself submissively be- 
 hind the leading sergeant's horse. Him she follows 
 meekly through the stream; on the other side, she con- 
 tinues so for a few yards; then she steals a glance 
 ahead. There is no more water with its horrid noise 
 in sight. She gives a slight champ on the bit, and 
 moves up beside the sergeant's horse. A good long 
 look assures her of a dry road ahead. She bounds past, 
 the airs and graces fly back as swiftly as they flew 
 away; and in ^ye minutes she is as vain a little Gipsy 
 as ever she was before. 
 
 But it is one o'clock — horses and men are hungry, 
 and just beyond us is a house. We see chickens, cows, 
 sheep and pigs, but no smoke rises from the chimney. 
 We halt ; the sergeant enters the open door ; comes back 
 and reports it just what we want — a deserted house. 
 In a few minutes the horses are unsaddled and tied 
 to the fence, munching the corn we find in two large 
 cribs. The poor cows welcome us, for they have not 
 been fed since their owner ran away, and are almost 
 starved. My order to the men is to take nothing but 
 food, and to injure nothing needlessly. The sheep are 
 caught, pronounced too thin, and let loose. But the 
 chickens and pigs — after them there is a chase. There 
 are shouts of excitement, intermingled with roars of 
 laughter, a? some brave pig charges between his pur- 
 
rORAGIl^G 29 
 
 suer's feet and trips him up, and with the squeals and 
 cacklings of the victims as they are caught. Within 
 the house we find a few things left, which the poor 
 creatures probably overlooked as they hurried away. 
 There is a jar of molasses on the shelf; a bag of dried 
 peaches in the closet; a haunch of smoked venison and 
 a barrel of black walnuts in the garret. These last are 
 a source of great entertainment for the men, who not 
 only enjoy the most unusual luxury, but exult in the 
 thought of a runaway rebel gathering nuts for them, 
 and crack many jokes as they crack the shells. But 
 the poor children, who picked them for their winter 
 treat, now wandering homeless, and countryless, who 
 can guess where! We have been so bred to respect 
 private rights that as I ' sit watching the men gather 
 up the pigs and poultry, and fill their sacks with corn, 
 I have a slight fear that the former owner may appear 
 and charge us with stealing the property which his 
 treason has forfeited to the Government. But no owner 
 appears. The horses have done their corn and the men 
 their biscuit; the molasses has been emptied into can- 
 teens, and a large bundle of corn leaves tied to every 
 saddle — we must start. 
 
 Down the Dover road we go a mile or two, then turn 
 up another bridle-path, which crosses and recrosses a 
 little rill some thirty times. Two men ride before us, 
 partly to accustom themselves to the duties of advance 
 guard, partly to point out the intricate road. As we 
 come round a turn, there are a farmer and his daugh- 
 
30 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 ter (a young girl) on horseback before us. They have 
 met the advance guard, and have stopped, and are look- 
 ing back at them with fearful interest, completely ab- 
 sorbed in the sight. They do not even hear our ap- 
 proach, and I get near enough to hear the girl asking 
 her father about these two Federal soldiers. The 
 squadron is marching "by twos," and there is not room 
 enough to pass. Ordinarily, private persons would 
 have to get out of the way ; but I think this a beautiful 
 opportunity to be very polite, so I command "by file." 
 Man and girl turn their heads as though a gun had 
 gone off close to their ears. Such a look of fear and 
 surprise I have never seen as in the poor girl's face. 
 They are so hemmed in that they have to stand still 
 until the whole column passes one by one, and the last 
 we see of them they continue to stand there, looking 
 back at us. It must seem like a vision, and they will 
 have a tremendous tale to tell when they reach home. 
 This road is so secluded that none of our soldiers have 
 found it, and we cause a great stir in the few houses 
 we pass. My men march silently, more like regulars 
 than volunteers, and the inhabitants confess that they 
 find in us an unexpected contrast to the noisy, yelling 
 rascals who a few weeks before were plundering them, 
 for the good of the Southern Confederacy. 
 
 The sun has gone down and the moon has risen, and 
 we are on the main road from Fort Donelson, and will 
 reach our camp soon and have a good supper, and rest 
 sweetly in our tents after our day's ride. We think 
 
FORAGING 31 
 
 over what we will have for supper, and debate whether 
 the pigs, or chickens or corn-meal can be added to the 
 rations we shall find in camp. We are reckoning like 
 inexperienced soldiers. The uncertainty of legal is 
 nothing to the uncertainty of military life. In the law 
 you can at least calculate on your breakfast, and a part 
 of your bed ; but in camp you can calculate on nothing. 
 We approach Fort Henry, and plunge into the mud 
 that environs our camp. We struggle through till we 
 come to the trees where the horses should be tied, and 
 to the little knoll where the tents should be pitched. 
 We look aroimd in vague astonishment — horses, and 
 men and tents have vanished; all is darkness and si- 
 lence ; our camp has gone. To come home and find 
 your home absconded, to leave your house in the morn- 
 ing and find it has walked away at the evening, is 
 something new. Searching in the darkness for the 
 new camp is folly ; there is nothing to be done but wait 
 till to-morrow. It is very easy to say wait^ but Jiow 
 are we to w^ait ? If we had some beds to wait in, and 
 some supper to wait for, it would be tolerable ; but we 
 w^ere only going for a little while, so we left our 
 blankets, and it was such a fine day that we did not 
 take our overcoats. Who w^ould have dreamt of the 
 colonel playing us such a trick? At Fort Donelson I 
 learned the first lesson — ^^do not trust to your trunk;" 
 now I have to learn the second — ^'do not trust to your 
 camp." Hereafter I will not leave for half an hour 
 without having my blanket rolled behind, and my over- 
 
32 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 coat strapped before. If I only had them now! But 
 lamenting will do no good; something must be done. 
 "Who has got any matches?" ^'Smitli and Jones." 
 '^Then Smith and Jones light a fire." The fire soon 
 blazes up and discloses a small pile, which the wagons 
 have overlooked. There are a few blankets and over- 
 coats, three plates, a couple of mess-pans, and one camp- 
 kettle. A new discovery is made — some coffee and a 
 sack of meat. "What kind?" "Pork." "Hurrah! 
 we're all right now." "^o, salt beef." "Pshaw! 
 What do they send salt beef to the army for ? If it 
 had only been pork, we could have toasted it on sticks, 
 and fried it on plates, and broiled it on the coals, and 
 have greased the pans with it ; but this beef, we can do 
 nothing with it." But we have the bushel of meal I 
 fortunately bought, and the chickens. Pick the chick- 
 ens, and cut them up; mix some meal and water, and 
 make corn dodgers, as the Tennesseeans do. There 
 are the plates to bake it on, and we can try baking it 
 in the ashes. But the coffee — everybody looks forward 
 to it — no matter if it is poor and weak. Without milk, 
 without sugar, and full of grounds, it is always the 
 tired soldier's great restorative, his particular comfort. 
 Our camp-kettle is set apart for it. The chickens must 
 be stewed in pans and roasted on sticks. The camp- 
 kettle is sacred for the coffee. "Captain," says some- 
 body, "this coffee is not ground, and we have no mill. 
 What shall we do ?" What indeed shall we do ? We 
 must have coffee, and some one hits on the remedy; 
 
FOEAGING 33 
 
 we take the tough linen bag of a haversack, put the 
 coffee in it and pound it on a log. Somewhat to our 
 surprise we find that it is soon well ground, and in the 
 course of half an hour we have as good coffee as usual. 
 Chicken and corn dodgers come along more slowly, but 
 after awhile we sit around the fire to eat them; and 
 everybody declares that he has had enough, and that it 
 is very good. From supper to bed. The corn forage 
 that we brought for the horses must be used for bed- 
 ding. Spread on the ground, it makes a comfortable 
 mattress. I have said that we had left our blankets; 
 but nevertheless, every man has one. Some years ago 
 a young cavalry captain named McClellan, who (in my 
 opinion) does all things quietly but well, observed that 
 the padding of a saddle frequently got out of order, 
 causing the poor horse a sore back, and requiring a 
 saddler to put it in order again. He also remarked 
 that the pad was of no other use than to play the part 
 of cushion between the saddle and the horse's back. 
 He thereupon introduced into the army what is now 
 known as the McClellan saddle. It is made of wood, 
 hollowed out so that on the one side it makes a com- 
 fortable seat for the man, and on the other conforms 
 to the shape of the horse. A narrow slit is cut out over 
 the backbone, which not only saves the horse's spine, 
 but makes it much more cool and comfortable for him. 
 And finally, the padding consists of a horse blanket 
 folded up. Thus to the wise, judicious foresight of 
 General McClellan each of us is indebted for a blanket. 
 
34 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 Lying on my cornleaf couch, and looking up at the 
 clear sky, within the glow of our fire, is as pleasant a 
 situation after a long ride as one could desire. I think 
 it delightful, and while thinking so drop asleep. But 
 there is one more lesson in store for us before daylight. 
 After some hours I am awoke by a tremendous noise. 
 There are no stars now. The sky is black as ink — the 
 darkness is such that we can see nothing but the half- 
 burnt brands of the fires. The wind howls through 
 the trees like a pack of wolves, and scatters our fires 
 so that the coals fly over our heads, and fall on our 
 blankets and beds. The rain is not come yet, but is 
 coming — we shall be drenched, and then have to sit up 
 in the darkness and shiver till daylight. It is a dismal 
 prospect. Fitter, patter on the leaves. Now we are 
 in for it: the drops thicken; in a minute we shall be 
 as wet as water. But Nature only means to give us 
 a fright. The rain does not increase — the drops stop — 
 the wind howls less loudly. Soon, through a rent in 
 the clouds is seen a star, and then another. The rent 
 grows larger, and every one takes a long breath, and 
 says, "The storm has passed round." We lie down 
 again, and wake up to find it a bright, frosty morning. 
 
 After an hour's ride, we have found the new camp. 
 It is on a beautiful wooded slope, overlooking the river 
 and the fort, and on either side a clear little rill trickles 
 through the trees. Our tents are pitched on one, and 
 the horses picketed on the other. None of us have ever 
 seen so beautiful a camp before; and as we dismount 
 the bugles blow the breakfast call. 
 
IV 
 
 THE HOSPITAL 
 
 THERE was a young man in my squadron whom I 
 shall call Erank Gillham. He was the son of a 
 Wisconsin farmer, and had enlisted in the ranks as a 
 patriotic duty. Frank was young and handsome, a 
 fine horseman, and rode one of the handsomest horses 
 in the squadron. He was just the person whom one 
 would suppose sure to rise from the ranks and perform 
 many a gallant feat during the war. A few weeks ago 
 the horse was reported sick. It had but a cold, and we 
 thought that a few days would find it well again. But 
 the cold grew worse and changed to pneumonia, a dis- 
 ease of the lungs fearfully prevalent here among both 
 men and horses. 
 
 Erank nursed and watched his horse day and night, 
 counting the beatings of its pulse, consulting the far- 
 rier, administering the medicine as though the horse 
 were his best friend. It was fruitless labor; for the 
 poor animal stood hour after hour panting with droop- 
 ing head, occasionally looking sadly up as if to say, 
 ^^You can do me no good/' until at last it died. We 
 all felt sorry for the poor horse, but did not think his 
 death was the forerunner of a greater loss. 
 
 In the middle of December the surgeon reported 
 
36 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 Trank sick with measles. The cold draughts through 
 the barracks are peculiarly dangerous to this disease, 
 and it is also contagious; and hence it is an inflexible 
 rule to send patients at once to the hospital. The am- 
 bulance came, Frank was helped in, and I bid him 
 good-by, expecting (for it was but a slight a,ttack) 
 that he would return soon. 
 
 A fortnight passed, and he was reported convalescent ; 
 the measles had gone, but there was a cough remain- 
 ing; he had better wait awhile till quite restored. 
 
 Once or twice I tried to go to the hospital, which 
 was a mile distant from camp; but there is a rule for- 
 bidding ofiicers to leave the camp except with a pass, 
 and the passes are limited in number and dealt out in 
 turn — my turn had not come. My last application for 
 a pass was made on Sunday ; unhappily it was refused. 
 On Monday, I sent some letters which had come for 
 Frank down to the hospital. An hour or two after- 
 wards the letters came back. I took them — they were 
 unopened — there was a message: ^Trank Gillham is 
 dead." 
 
 During the two or three preceding days, the cough 
 had run into pneumonia. The surgeons had not sent 
 word — they had no one to send — there were so many 
 such cases. I had not been there, because it was con- 
 trary to camp regulations; and thus, with a family 
 within the telegraph's call and some old friends within 
 the neighboring barracks, poor Frank had died alone 
 in the cheerless wards of a public hospital. 
 
THE HOSPITAL 37 
 
 When it was too late to receive a last message or 
 soothe a dying hour, a pass could be obtained. I took 
 with me a corporal, an old friend of Frank's. As we 
 rode along I made some inquiries and learned that 
 Frank was the eldest child, and the pride of his family. 
 There had doubtless been anxious forebodings when he 
 enlisted, and tears when he departed. ^'It will break 
 his father's heart when he hears of this," said the cor- 
 poral. 
 
 Ordinarily it would have been a great relief to ride 
 beyond the camp enclosure; for the sense of confine- 
 ment and the constant sight of straight rows of men 
 going through their endless angular movements become 
 very irksome after a while, and awaken a strong de- 
 sire to be unrestrained yourself and to see people in 
 their natural, every-day life. But now we felt too de- 
 pressed for enjoying our unexpected liberty, and except 
 when I was asking the questions I have spoken of, we 
 rode in dreary silence, thinking of the painful duty 
 before us, and of the distant family soon to be startled 
 by the fatal message, and informed that they had given 
 a victim to the guilty rebellion. 
 
 At length we reached the ^^Hospital of the Good 
 Samaritan." It is situated on the outskirts of the city, 
 and has been taken by the Government for soldiers 
 sick with contagious diseases. The building is large 
 and not unpleasant, the ceilings high and the rooms 
 cheerfully lighted. There seemed to be such comforts 
 as can be bought and sold, and the attendants appeared 
 
38 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 kind and diligent. But here I must stop on the favor- 
 able side. As I looked around, I learned why soldiers 
 dread the hospital. The cots were close together, with 
 just room enough to pass between, and on every cot 
 lay a sick man. At the sound of the opening door, some 
 looked eagerly toward us — others turned their eyes 
 languidly — and others again did not change their va- 
 cant gaze, too weak to care who came or went away. 
 There were faces flushed with fever, others pale and 
 thin, and others with the pallor of death settling upon 
 them, the lips muttering unconsciously in delirium and 
 the fingers nervously picking the bedclothes. Here 
 was a man who had just arrived, timid and anxious; 
 and on the next cot was one who would soon depart on 
 the last march. 
 
 I went into the room where my lost soldier had taken 
 his farewell, hoping to gather from the other occupants 
 some last words or message for the dear ones of his 
 home. The cot was still empty. I went up to the 
 next patient and whispered my question, ^^Did you 
 know the young man who died this morning?" The 
 man shook his head and said, "]l^o, I was too sick;" 
 and he glanced nervously at the empty cot so close be- 
 side him. I passed round and asked the next. He 
 half opened his closed eyes, but made no reply. It 
 was too plain he could not. I had not observed how 
 soon he would follow Frank. I went to the night at- 
 tendant, who had come round about midnight, and had 
 spoken to Frank of the coming change. He had been 
 
THE HOSPITAL 39 
 
 resigned and had expressed regrets only for his family 
 and country, and a wish to live for them. ^'He said 
 this with great energy," said the attendant, ''and I 
 wondered how a dying man could feel so much. But 
 after that he became flighty; and as there were only 
 three of us to over one hundred patients, I had to 
 go and leave him. He died about sunrise." Did he 
 continue delirious, or was he conscious through those 
 last lonely hours, and did he wish for some fond hand 
 to support his head, some kind ear to receive his part- 
 ing words ? I hoped the former. A crowded hospital 
 is a lonely place wherein to die. 
 
 ''Will you see the body?" said the superintendent. 
 We all have a natural repugnance to death, but in 
 addition to this repugnance I remember the face of a 
 friend with such distinctness that it is painful for me 
 to impress on the living picture in my memory the 
 marred and broken image of the dead. I therefore 
 seldom join in the usual custom of viewing the corpse 
 at funerals — never, if I can avoid it without giving 
 pain to those who do not understand my motives. It 
 consequently was with more than usual reluctance that 
 I discharged this duty of ascertaining that no terrible 
 mistake had occurred among the number coming and 
 going, and dying in the hospital. We went dowmstairs 
 to the basement. Hitherto my experience with death 
 had been only that of funerals, in the calm and quiet 
 of peaceful life, where all that is most painful is 
 softened or hidden and death made to take the sem- 
 
40 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 blance of sleep. I can hardly say that I expected to 
 see, as usual, the solitary coffin and its slumbering ten- 
 ant, yet I certainly anticipated nothing different. ^'This 
 is the dead-room," said the superintendent, as he un- 
 locked and threw open a door. The name was the first 
 intimation of something different. It was a narrow, 
 gloomy room, and on the stone pavement lay four white 
 figures. They were decently attired in the hospital 
 shroud, but the accustomed concealments of the under- 
 taker's art were wanting. The staring eyes, the open 
 mouth, the contracted face left little of the usual sleep- 
 like repose of death. It was a ghastly sight. I felt 
 like shrinking back to the outer air, but had to enter 
 the room. The superintendent did not know Frank, 
 so I was obliged to look at each. I glanced at the first. 
 He was a young man with fair hair, and what had been 
 bright blue eyes. They seemed to return my look so 
 consciously that for a moment I could not avert my 
 gaze. The look seemed to say, "You do not know me: 
 we are strangers who have never met before, will never 
 meet again.'' I glanced at the second, at the third. 
 All were strangers, and all were young. The fourth I 
 recognized. The room was so narrow that the figures 
 reached from wall to wall, and as we went forward we 
 had to step over each prostrate form. The corporal 
 followed me, and looked long and earnestly at his friend. 
 There had been no mistake. As we went out my eyes 
 involuntarily turned to the others. It was probably 
 the only look of pity they received. "Did they die 
 
THE nOSPITAI. 41 
 
 during the night V^ I inquired. ^^Yes !" "And has no 
 officer or friend been with them?" "No!" "When 
 will they be buried?" "In the afternoon." This, I 
 fear, was all their funeral service. "Did they antici- 
 pate such a death and such a burial when they came 
 from distant pleasant homes to serve in the great 
 army?" I asked myself. And as I looked on them, 
 thus neglected and deserted, I thought of the families 
 and friends who would give much to stand as I stood 
 beside them, to weep over their coffins, and to go with 
 them to the grave. 
 
 The remains of my soldier it was determined should 
 be sent to his family. He was dressed in his uniform, 
 and on the following day the railroad swiftly carried 
 him back to his old home. 
 
 When all was over, I gathered together his few ef- 
 fects. This the law makes the duty of an officer. There 
 were also some unanswered letters to be returned — 
 pleasant letters, beginning, "Dear Frank, we wish you 
 merry Christmas!" and hoping he would have happy 
 holidays in camp. And there was one touch of mel- 
 ancholy romance added; for hidden in the recesses of 
 his pocket-book was a tress of hair, and on the wrapper 
 a name; a letter, too, with the same signature. I de- 
 termined that no curious eyes should run over these, 
 and that they should not be the subject for careless 
 tongues ; so I carefully placed them in a separate pack- 
 age and sent them to one who perhaps will grieve the 
 most. 
 
42 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 And since I commenced tliis addition to my letter, 
 there has been another interruption — a second victim 
 of an unhealthy camp and crowded barracks. His 
 death, poor boy, possessed fewer circumstances of in- 
 terest. He was a German, with no family circle to 
 be broken; a sister here, a brother there, and parents 
 in a distant land. When told of Frank's death he 
 seemed anxious, and whispered me that there were 
 many dying in the hospital. The surgeon said there 
 was no danger, but I saw it did not reassure him. On 
 Sunday I got leave to send down one of my men, who 
 was his friend, to the hospital, to be with him as a 
 night nurse. On Monday I rode down. ''How is 
 Leonard ?" was the first question to the surgeon. "He 
 is very low," was the answer. I went up to his room. 
 His friend sat by the cot, holding his hand. But the 
 eyes were glazed, the pulse had stopped, and all was 
 over. He had just died. 
 
 You may wish to know something of a soldier's fu- 
 neral, not such as we have in Broadway, with music 
 and processions, but such as are occurring here. 
 
 I asked leave for the squadron to attend the funeral, 
 and the colonel said certainly, all who wished should 
 go. At the appointed time we mounted and rode slowly 
 to the hospital, accompanied by the chaplain of the regi- 
 ment. We reached it soon, and the men were drawn 
 up in line. Even in such scenes military discipline 
 enables us to move more easily and rapidly than in 
 ordinary life. A few commands in an unusually sub- 
 
THE HOSPITAL 43 
 
 dued voice were given. ^'Prepare to dismount." ^^Dis- 
 mount!'' ^^Ones and threes hold horses, twos and fours 
 forward." Half of the squadron then passed by the 
 coffin, and then relieved the others in holding the horses. 
 All was done so quietly and quickly that it formed a 
 contrast to a similar scene at an ordinary funeral. The 
 ambulance came to the door. The ambulance carries 
 the sick to the hospital, and the dead to the grave; it 
 is the soldier's litter and his hearse. 
 
 About a mile from the hospital is the Wesleyan cem- 
 etery. I had ridden by it during the soft summer 
 weather of the fall, and remarked how prettily it is 
 situated upon the brow of a hill, with the city"^ in view 
 upon one side and the quiet country on the other, while 
 large trees and mournful evergreens give an air of sad- 
 ness and seclusion. It was a relief when the ambulance 
 turned toward this peaceful resting place; though I 
 wish that a soldiers' cemetery had been laid out where 
 the numbers who die in St. Louis and the country 
 around it might rest together. We entered, and I 
 quickly remarked a change since last I had passed that 
 way. On one side, where had been a smooth, green 
 lawn, there were straight rows and ranks of mounds, 
 so regular and close that the ground looked as though 
 it had been trenched by some thrifty gardener. These 
 were the soldiers' graves. There were many — many of 
 them. Two grave diggers were at work — constant work 
 for them. A grave was always ready prepared, and 
 one was ready for us. Our ceremonies were few and 
 
 *St. Louis. 
 
44 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 simple — the squadron drew up in line — the coffin was 
 lifted out — the chaplain made a prayer — and we re- 
 turned. 
 
 But in the same ambulance were two other coffins. 
 'No companion had been with them at the hospital, and 
 no friends followed them to the grave. Unknown and, 
 save by us chance strangers, unnoticed, they were laid 
 to rest. This loneliness of their burial was very sad. 
 We gave them all we could — a sigh, and paid them 
 such respect as the circumstances allowed. We did not 
 know them — who they were, or whence they came — 
 only this, that they were American soldiers, fallen for 
 their country. 
 
 I have heard it said that this war will make us a 
 very warlike people. It is a mistake. Those who are 
 engaged in it, while they will be ready again to rise in 
 a just cause, will never wish for another war. I under- 
 stand now why officers of real experience — be they ever 
 so brave — always dread a war. There are too many 
 such scenes as I have described. Yet do not think that 
 any waver in their determination — and, while you pity, 
 do not waver yourselves. We may blame mismanage- 
 ment and neglect; and we must try to alleviate suffer- 
 ing and prevent needless disease and death, and only in 
 the restoration of our Union hope for peace. 
 
o 
 
 V 
 
 A FLAG OF TRUCE 
 
 UK regiment has left its pleasant camp near Fort 
 Henry, and has crossed the Tennessee and en- 
 camped in a small field about three miles above the fort. 
 I happened to be in command when we halted here, and 
 named the camp after our colonel. 
 
 It is a rainy day in camp — since morning it has been 
 rain, rain, rain. The camp seems deserted; save here 
 and there yon see a man, with blanket drawn close 
 over head and shoulders, plod heavily and slowly 
 through the mud. The horses stand with heads down 
 and drooping ears, stock still — nothing moves but the 
 rain, and that straight down. There is no light umbrella 
 nor rattling onmibus in camp; nor dry stockings, nor 
 warm fire to find at home. The tents are tired of shed- 
 ding rain, and it oozes through; there were no spades 
 to trench them, and it runs under. There is water 
 above and mud beneath, and wet everywhere. 'No fun 
 in soldiering now. 
 
 An officer says, ^^Captain, you will report immedi- 
 ately for orders." So I wrap my blanket round me, 
 and toil over to the colonel's tent. The colonel is a 
 young man, but an old soldier, and has the only fire 
 in camp. It is close to the tent door — no danger on 
 
46 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 sucli a day of the canvas catching fire — the smoke occa- 
 sionally blows in^ but so does the heat, and the colonel 
 says he will keep it up all night. He pitched his tent, 
 too, the moment he arrived, not waiting for the clouds, 
 and did it well. His alone is comfortable — so much 
 for being a "regular'^ and learning your lessons from 
 experience. 
 
 The colonel hands me the order, which runs thus — 
 ^'To-morrow Captain 'N, will proceed with a flag of 
 truce to Paris, and remove our wounded, left there at 
 the recent engagement. Should they be held as pris- 
 oners of war he is authorized to make an exchange, 
 and will take with him the surgeon and an ambulance, 
 and four of his own men." 
 
 The colonel then advises me to see the officer who 
 commanded the late expedition to Paris, and learn from 
 him the names of the wounded, and the roads. I go 
 to his tent and find that he is sick, and has secured a 
 little hospital stove, which puffs and blows like a loco- 
 motive baby. There is also an old gentleman there, 
 whose son was taken prisoner by us at Paris. He has 
 brought in the body of an officer who died of his wounds, 
 and he hopes to procure the release of his son, now on 
 his way to St. Louis. Mr. Clokes lives on the Paris 
 road, and it is arranged that he ride back with the sur- 
 geon in our ambulance. 
 
 I plod back to our tent ; the water has run in, and it 
 is ankle-deep in mud. Though the sun is hardly down, 
 my two lieutenants have gone to bed, for there is no 
 
A FLAG OF TRUCE 47 
 
 place to sit up, and nothing to see, or hear or do. I 
 may as well turn in, too; but there rises a serious ques- 
 tion. My boots are mud from top to bottom, and 
 wringing wet. If I pull them off, I may not be able 
 to pull them on, and a man cannot carry a flag of truce 
 without boots. If I leave them on, I shall have to go 
 to bed without my feet, for it will never do to put that 
 mass of mud into your blankets, and they feel like lumps 
 of ice now. ^Yhat shall I do ? I will pull them off, and 
 will get up before reveille (an hour, if necessary) and 
 pull them on again. So I pull off the boots, and lie 
 down in my wet clothes, and wrap myself in my wet 
 blanket, and remember that I have not had anything 
 since a scant noonday dinner. 
 
 You get hungry in camp, and must be fed. Our 
 camp chest is packed up under a tree, but on the other 
 side of the tent is a pan with some stewed goose and 
 corn bread. I cannot step into the mud unless I strug- 
 gle into those boots again; but near me is an axe. I 
 slip down to the end of the cot, and with the axe fish 
 the pan of goose out of the little lake it stands in. The 
 imliappy bird swims in a gravy of rainwater, and the 
 corn bread is soaking wet ; plates and forks are in the 
 camp chest; but I have my pocket-knife, and with it 
 eat a saltless supper. 
 
 My little German orderly comes in after awhile, and. 
 giving a soldier's salute with great ceremony notwith- 
 standing the rain, says: 
 
 ^'Captain, fot orders ?" 
 
48 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 ^^Bischoff, we must have some coffee. Tell Anderson 
 (our contraband) to bring it." 
 
 ^^But, Captain/' says Bisclioff, ^Hbe tent, he 
 blow down — the cook, he go away to a barn — 
 the fire, he go out — the wood, he is wet and will 
 no burn.'' 
 
 ^'But, Bischoff, we rmist have some coffee, we shall 
 die if we don't. There is the coffeepot, with a package 
 of ground coffee inside — get some water, and go up to 
 Captain K.'s tent, and ask him to let you make it on 
 the stove." 
 
 ^^Yes, Captain," and Bischoff departs. 
 
 By and by he comes back with the coffee; we sit up 
 and drink it scalding hot, and quite revived, say, "E^ow 
 for a smoke." My pipe and tobacco bag are always in 
 my pocket — those !North Moore Street bags are much 
 more useful than their makers ever dreamt they would 
 be — a dry match is at last induced to go, the wet 
 blankets grow warmer, and we express the opinion that 
 "this is really comfortable." 
 
 "Well, Captain, any more order ?" says Bischoff, who 
 is also revived by his share of the coffee. 
 
 "Yes, Bischoff, tell Sergeant Starleigh to be ready 
 with two men, to go with me in the morning — you will 
 be the fourth; and mind and have the horses ready by 
 seven." 
 
 "Yes, Captain." 
 
 Bischoff goes out, draws the tent opening closely to- 
 gether, holds his hand over his pipe to keep it dry ; and 
 
A FLAG OF TEUCE 40 
 
 then we liear his steps slowly receding — sqush — sqush 
 — sqush through the mud. 
 
 My dreams are entirely of boots, and they wake me 
 early. Then commences a struggle for (outside) ex- 
 istence. Twice I take out my knife and meditate the 
 last resort, and twice my hand is stayed by the thought 
 that there may be no shoemaker in all Tennessee. It 
 grows later and lighter, and I shall miss the morning 
 roll-call for the first time since I have been in service. 
 But the colonel saves me from breaking my rule. He 
 thinks it too bad to make the men stand out in the wet, 
 and has ordered the buglers not to sound the reveille. 
 While resting, I betake myself to the goose — now truly 
 a water-fowl and wetter than he ever was in his life — 
 and manage to breakfast between the struggles. At 
 last I am victorious, and have the boots beneath my 
 feet, and go out to look around. 
 
 The poetry most appropriate to the occasion would 
 be a verse of that little infant school hymn: 
 
 "The Lord he makes the rain come down, 
 The rain come down, the rain come down, 
 Afternoon and morning." 
 
 But poetry is the last thing I think of, for my 
 thoughts run on the roads ; and some drenched pickets, 
 who look as though they wanted to be hung on a fence 
 to dry, inform me that I will have hard work to get 
 through, and that it has rained all night as it is rain- 
 ing now. At home, what a hardship, what an outrage 
 
50 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 it would be to send us off in such weather and on such 
 roads. !N^ow, we fear something may prevent, and 
 hurry lest it come^ for the road is not more uncomfort- 
 able than the camp, or the rain wetter elsewhere than 
 it is here. The doctor is a grey-headed, prudent, ex- 
 perienced man, and is something of an invalid; but he 
 stoutly discredits a rumor that the wounded men have 
 died, and whispers to me that we had better be off, 
 before any more such stories come in. 
 
 A flag of truce is not kept ready made in camp, and 
 we are rather puzzled of what to make one nov/. "I'd 
 lend you my white handkerchief" (says a man who 
 has been listening with great gravity to various sug- 
 gestions) — "I'd lend you my white handkerchief, only 
 I'm afeared if you put it up, the rebels 'ud think you'd 
 histe-tud the black flag, and give you no quarter." We 
 do not borrow the "white" handkerchief. But at length 
 we remember the hospital tent, and the hospital steward 
 produces a piece of white something from his stores, 
 which is bound around a stick and made into a flag. 
 
 Under circumstances such as these the doctor climbs 
 into the ambulance, I mount my horse, and we start. 
 The rain somewhat abates, and diminishes to a drizzle, 
 which is a great relief ; but the ambulance drags along 
 snail-like through the mud. We who are mounted do 
 not ride faster than a walk, yet repeatedly have to wait, 
 and watch it crawling after us among the trees. This 
 slow movement gives little exercise, and when one starts 
 wet, he soon becomes cold and stiff, sitting thus motion- 
 
A FLAG OF TEUCE 51 
 
 less in a damp saddle, ^or can we trot off a mile or 
 two, and then wait for the ambulance to catch up, for 
 some straggling rebel soldiers may be on any cross-road 
 or in any thicket, and pounce upon the ambulance as 
 so much plunder, and shoot the doctor before they in- 
 quire into the facts. A surgeon is a non-combatant, 
 and not required to be shot at, and we must stay near 
 by and shield him, if nothing more. 
 
 Our road is the first object of interest — a wagon 
 track running along high forest ridges, parallel to the 
 Tennessee. We soon pass a little timber house, with 
 its scanty field and scantier garden; and then go on, 
 on, two, three miles, without seeing a sign of life ; and 
 then we turn into the main road from the river to Paris. 
 There is now a railroad passing through Paris, from 
 Nashville to Memphis, yet a year ago the road we are 
 now travelling was its main avenue. We are, there- 
 fore, disappointed in finding that although the farms 
 are frequent, they are poor and neglected, and the dwell- 
 ings are the same backwoods timber houses we have so 
 often seen. 
 
 We have now travelled seven or eight miles, and 
 have passed the ^'line of our 'pickets." In point of fact, 
 there is no line, real or imaginary, and we do not see 
 a single picket; yet, inasmuch as our cavalry is con- 
 stantly passing through and examining, by night and 
 by day, a belt of country from six to eight miles wide, 
 it is customary to speak of that belt as within our 
 picket lines. Hitherto I have ridden at the head of the 
 
62 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 party, and the ambulance has followed close behind. 
 I^ow some additional precaution is necessary. A man 
 rides about the width of a city block ahead of us car- 
 rying the flag, and the ambulance falls back about the 
 same distance in the rear. The object of these changes 
 is first, that a man riding alone in advance indicates 
 that it is not an ordinary scouting party; and second, 
 if shots are fired the doctor and his man will be out 
 of danger. The chief risks we run are first, that our 
 object may not be perceived, and we be fired into be- 
 fore we can explain; and second, that King's cavalry, 
 who are said to have suffered in the late fight and to 
 be a wild, marauding set, may never have heard of the 
 laws of war, and utterly disregard the flag of truce. 
 
 Five hours have passed, and we have just reached 
 Mr. Clokes'. How delightful is a wood fire, roaring 
 and crackling in a wide old-fashioned fireplace, and 
 how comforting is a dry board floor in a rainy day! 
 Chairs and a table, too, are articles of luxury, if one 
 but knew it ; and when you have dined and breakfasted, 
 seated on logs or saddles, or such like conveniences, for 
 a few weeks, you appreciate them properly. I might 
 add a paragraph on plates and knives and forks; but 
 of those I have not been deprived more than a week at 
 a time, and hence they do not fall within the class of 
 novelties. 
 
 This dinner I shall always fondly remember. I can- 
 not call to mind any other dinner that at all rivals it. 
 We are so hungry and cold and wet, and it is so pleas- 
 
A FLAG OF TEUCE 63 
 
 ant to "sit doion to dinner' once more. And tlien this 
 dinner is so nice and neat and plentiful, showing, for a 
 soldier's cooking, a good housewife's care! If that be- 
 watered goose could see it, he would feel ashamed of 
 himself, and request leave to be cooked over again. I 
 was about to begin with the tablecloth, and enumerate 
 all that was on it; but it occurs to me that what is a 
 feast to us is an everyday affair to you, and that you 
 will shrug your shoulders, and say, ^'I^ot much of a 
 dinner after all." And I must confess that Mrs. Clokes' 
 apologies call my attention to certain wants, which show 
 that our blockade has been effective in disturbing the 
 serenity of Southern housewives. 
 
 "I have nothing but rye coffee to offer you, gentle- 
 men: it is impossible for us to get coffee now." 
 
 ^*What does coffee cost down here, Mrs. Clokes?" 
 
 "The last we bought was a dollar a pound, but now 
 we cannot get it at any price. Everything is dreadfully 
 scarce. I'm sorry we have no fresh meat, but the sol- 
 diers [rebels, she means] have taken a great many of 
 our pigs, and we lost some which we killed, for want 
 of good salt." Salt, I find, was fourteen dollars a sack 
 when last heard from, and like coffee, has gone entirely 
 out of the market. 
 
 In the corner is a colored girl carding cotton by hand. 
 I look at the operation with some interest, and Mrs. 
 Clokes goes on with the story of her wants: ''There is 
 no calico to be had, and we have to spin and weave by 
 hand. Do you know, sir, whether trade will be opened 
 
54 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 soon with the l^orth: our hand-cards are nearly worn 
 out, and I do not know where to look for others ? A 
 neighbor of ours paid ten dollars for a pair the other 
 day, and I don't suppose I could buy them at any price 
 now." 
 
 But there is a heavier grief in poor Mrs. Clokes' 
 breast. She talks of her son : "He is so ill and so young, 
 he will die if kept a prisoner at the E'orth, and he did 
 not enlist till they threatened the drafting. Oh! why 
 did we ever go to war, we were so prosperous and 
 happy! Gentlemen, can't you do anything for my 
 son V^ And poor Mrs. Clokes' voice fails her, and she 
 bursts into tears. 
 
 But dinner done, we must resume our journey. It is 
 nine miles now to Paris. We have seen no rebel pick- 
 ets; but our friends the contrabands tell us, that they 
 have gone along a little while ago, and it will be dan- 
 gerous meeting in the dark. 
 
 Thirty years ago two brothers came from Massachu- 
 setts and put up their little spinning-mill near Paris. 
 The mill has grown larger as they have grown older, 
 and they are now among the wealthy men of the place. 
 Situated as they are — from the !N^orth — from hated 
 Massachusetts — for years employing free labor, and 
 owning slaves only through their Southern wives, they 
 have had to be most circumspect in every word and act, 
 giving no sign of loyalty, but, I doubt not, secretly 
 exulting at each success of the national arms. When 
 our troops retreated from Paris^ leaving their dead on 
 
A FLAG OF TRUCE 55 
 
 the neighboring field, the one brother had the bodies of 
 our fallen soldiers carefully brought in, and buried 
 them as if they were his own kinsmen, in the towTi 
 cemetery; and the other took the dying captain of our 
 artillery corps into his own house, and nursed him ten- 
 derly through his last hours. It is in the gloom of eve- 
 ning that we reach the factory, standing close to the 
 track of the Memphis railroad, neat and unadorned, 
 'Ne^v England reflected from every one of its plain 
 white boards. A gentleman comes forward as we halt, 
 and I introduce myself. He steps up close, and asks, 
 in a low voice, if we think we are safe. A train was 
 up an hour ago taking down the telegraph wires ; pick- 
 ets have galloped past and are now in Paris, and he 
 thinks it dangerous for us to go there to-night. He also 
 says that he dare not ask us to stop ; he came near being 
 arrested for taking in poor Captain Bullis. If he should 
 ask us he would be arrested and on his way to Memphis 
 within twelve hours. 
 
 There is a house beyond where w^e can stay ; but it is 
 a rule with me to advance, and then fall back to my 
 camping ground. So we retrace our steps for a mile 
 and halt at the farm house of a Mr. Horton, who does 
 not keep a tavern, but does entertain travellers. The 
 sergeant, with one man, has ridden on to break the sub- 
 ject and make arrangements, and when we come up 
 everything is ready. Our weary horses are soon un- 
 saddled and rolling in straw, and I follow the doctor 
 into the house. 
 
56 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 It is an old house, with old trees in front, and an 
 old couple within. They sit on each side of the wide 
 wood fire, and each comfortably puffs a pipe of home- 
 grown tobacco. We sit down and join them, and talk 
 Union for an hour or two. 
 
 Our host is a hale, hearty old man. He glories 
 in the past, laments the present, and hopes for the 
 future. The old lady listens with great gravity, 
 and occasionally puts in a word between the puffs 
 of her pipe. 
 
 "They would not let us vote for the Union at the 
 second election," says the old man, "and I hadn't time 
 to vote against it. So I stayed at home and told 'em 
 that one election was enough in one year, and I couldn't 
 spare time for more." 
 
 "Yes," says the old lady, "quite enough, and I 
 thought something would happen when I found we 
 were having two." 
 
 "I don't believe in Mr. Davis' doctrine," says the 
 old man, "of fighting in the last ditch till everybody's 
 dead. We were the most prosperous, happy people on 
 the earth, and we had better go back and be so again 
 than be killed." 
 
 "Yes indeed!" says the old lady; "we had better 
 not; and if we were, there would be nobody left for 
 our girls to marry but ^Northerners ; so the South would 
 get to be the N^orth in no time." 
 
 Our room is a large one, with another large fire and 
 three beds. The doctor takes one, and I hand the others 
 
A FLAG OF TRUCE 67 
 
 over to the men; it will not do for me to undress, so I 
 take my buffalo, and lie down by the fire. 
 
 I was beginning to doze, and thinking I never was so 
 comfortable in my life — it was so delightful to shut 
 your eyes and stretch yourself out, and feel the pleasant 
 warmth of this glowing, flickering fire, when the open- 
 ing of the door startles me, and I see the sergeant, who 
 is "on guard," come in. 
 
 He reports that two men on horseback came up from 
 Paris; one of them stopped and called out our host. 
 They had a long conversation in a low voice, and then 
 the man turned and rode back on a gallop. "And the 
 contrabands say that the old man is secesh," pursues 
 the sergeant, "and when the rebel troops went by he 
 made them come out and hurrah." This is agreeable! 
 Was the man on horseback a picket, and will there be 
 a troop clattering down on us in a few minutes, or has 
 he gone to raise a crowd of irresponsible countrymen, 
 who will think it fine fun to kill us and capture our 
 horses, and of whom General Beauregard will say, he 
 "really knows nothing, they were not soldiers, and acted 
 without authority" ? Is our old friend false to us ? 
 
 "Sergeant, what do you think of it ?" 
 
 The sergeant is a shrewd judge of character, and 
 there is no one in the squadron whose opinion I would 
 regard more highly on such a point as this. He comes 
 up close to the fire, and I see his face has a very anx- 
 ious expression, and he says, after a long pause: "I 
 don't know what to think of it." 
 
58 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 '^Well, go back and pick out a place where you can 
 see up the Paris road, and call me the instant you see 
 any object moving. Doctor, I say, did you hear 
 that?" 
 
 ^^Yes, and / don't know what to think of it," says 
 the doctor. ^^Can anything be done ?" 
 
 ^'The worst of it is, Doctor, that the flag prevents 
 our doing anything till actually attacked. We must 
 now go in the character of guests, professing entire 
 faith. If we were on ordinary duty, our sergeant would 
 have stopped that man, and I should keep him here till 
 we leave. As it is, we can neither fight nor run away — 
 though it is hardly fair, as you are a non-combatant, 
 to make you risk it." 
 
 ^'I think I will risk it if you do," says the doctor; 
 and he turns over and goes to sleep. 
 
 I lie by the fire this time without dozing. The men 
 are all sleeping heavily and undisturbed. The hovering 
 danger does not trouble them. Soon it is time to change 
 guard. I rouse the next man, and the sergeant comes 
 in and takes his place on the bed. I wonder if other 
 people find a weight in responsibility. Many talked 
 to me of the danger of the cavalry service — only one 
 ever named this other word, which is much the heavier. 
 The men have no responsibility, and are at rest; the 
 sergeant, lately so anxious, has made his report, per- 
 formed his duty, and has no more responsibility: he 
 now sleeps as soundly as the others. 
 
 The man on guard will be relieved of his in an hour 
 
A FLAG OF TRUCE 59 
 
 or two, and lie will lie down and slumber too. But I 
 hear the distant barking of dogs, and start up at the 
 sound, for we have learnt to observe the movements of 
 our own cavalry at night by this sign. Every house 
 keeps half a dozen curs, and they yelp frantically when 
 a body of horse is passing. I open the door softly and 
 peer out. The moon sheds a dim light through the 
 clouds, disclosing the long line of road and distant 
 woods toward Paris. The sentinel stands motionless 
 under a tree by the roadside. "Allen, do you see any- 
 thing?'' '''No, sir.'' "Did you hear that barking?" 
 "Yes, sir." "Watch whether it sounds again at any 
 other house, and if it is coming toward us." We listen 
 long but hear nothing. It must have been a chance 
 disturbance there. I lie down again, consoling my- 
 self with the thought, that I am at least warm and 
 dry. The geese make a tremendous cackling behind 
 the house. Rome was saved by a flock of geese, and 
 why shouldn't we be ? The sentinel is watching the 
 road in front; it will be better if I go out and inspect 
 the rear. 
 
 Thus the time passes till I post the next man on 
 guard, and thus the night w^ears away, till at 4 a.m. I 
 rouse the last one. Soon after I hear sounds about the 
 house, for the contrabands rise early, then come signs 
 of breakfast, then the grey light of morning, and with 
 it the voice of our old host and a warning that his wife 
 is up and breakfast almost ready. It is a right good 
 breakfast, and we start as soon as it is done, repass the 
 
CO SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 factory, travel over a couple of miles of muddy road, 
 and come in sight of Paris. 
 
 There are brick houses in view, four church spires, 
 large trees and a court house ; but we discover no Con- 
 federate flag. In another moment we have entered, and 
 are going up the main street. The first man stops and 
 looks at us, so does the second and the third. The 
 moment a man catches a glimpse of us he seems to freeze 
 fast to the sidewalk and lose all power over himself, 
 save that of staring vacantly at the Yankee cavalry. 
 We seem to be riding up an avenue of these staring, 
 frozen images. The red brick court house has a little 
 square around it and forms a natural halting place. I 
 ride up and ask one of the frozen if there is any Con- 
 federate officer in town. He says "l^o/^ in a fright- 
 ened way; "they all retired this morning, a couple of 
 hours ago." This relieves me of my flag of truce. We 
 find that two of our wounded men have been removed 
 to Memphis, and the third is too low to bear moving. 
 The doctor and the physician who has been attending 
 him, start off to see him and I draw my men up to the 
 fence and let them dismount. My N^orth Moore Street 
 education has made me much more particular in ^^de- 
 portment'' than volunteer officers generally are, and 
 my squadron, when on duty, generally bears the same 
 relation to some other squadrons that North Moore 
 Street does to some other schools. These townspeople 
 are therefore very much astonished to see a man left on 
 guard with the horses, and perfectly amazed when he 
 
A FLAG OF TRUCE 61 
 
 draws his sabre and marches steadily up and down his 
 beat, and I hear one whisper, ''Perhaps they be United 
 States reg'lars." 
 
 In a few minutes there is quite a crowd of congealed 
 citizens around us, all staring solemnly in icy silence. 
 They say nothing to us or to each other, but steadily 
 stare. I feel their looks crawling down my back and 
 round my sides, and turn which way I will, there is no 
 shaking them off. I have faced the eyes of many an 
 audience, but never such as this. They neither smile 
 nor frown, nor agree nor disagree; but have a vague, 
 stupid look of frightened wonder, as though we were 
 dangerous serpents escaped from a travelling menagerie, 
 which they can see for nothing at the risk of being swal- 
 lowed alive. 
 
 It is best to be cool and comfortable under all sorts 
 of circumstances, so I take out my pipe, exhibit a l^orth 
 Moore Street bag to these gay Parisians, and strike a 
 light. Picking out the most sensible man near me, I 
 commence a conversation complimenting them on the 
 appearance of their little town, which is more northernly 
 neat than I expected to find. Some men then come up 
 and hand to me the little effects of our dead soldiers, 
 and give many assurances of their kindness to our 
 wounded. The doctor about this time comes back, and 
 we start immediately on our return. Por some miles 
 I march rapidly, urging the ambulance horses to their 
 utmost, for there is no saying but the rebel cavalry 
 may return and amuse themselves by a pursuit. Then 
 
62 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 we drop into our previous slow gait, and calculate that 
 we shall reach camp bj sunset. 
 
 Th,ere is a long bridge on this road crossing a stream 
 with the pretty name of "The Holly Fork;'' on our 
 way out it struck me that our road to Paris might be 
 very easily barred by a little bridge-burning, and at 
 Paris some questions were asked which indicated that 
 it was to have been burned ere this. I measure it as 
 we recross, and finding that it is 255 feet long, and 
 that the stream cannot be forded, send on two men with 
 a report to the colonel. 
 
 It is now &Ye o'clock, and we are two miles from 
 camp. My horse has been going almost uninterruptedly 
 for ten hours, and I am promising him a good bed of 
 leaves and a long night's rest, when through the trees, 
 come two troopers riding on a gallop. They pull up, 
 and hand me a letter from the colonel: "Captain (it 
 says), your squadron is detailed to guard the bridge at 
 Holly Fork; you will take all proper measures to de- 
 fend it if attacked, and will remain there until relieved 
 by some other squadron." 
 
 "Did you see anything of my men ?" I say to the 
 messengers. "Yes ; they were saddling up, and will be 
 along soon." I may as well keep on; they may be 
 bringing me a fresh horse, and then I can send this one 
 back by these men. In half an hour I find the man 
 who leads has led us on to a wrong road. He tries a 
 cross-cut, and the cross-cut leads to a field. We must 
 turn the ambulance round and retrace both errors. It 
 
A FLAG OF TRUCE 63 
 
 is vexatious in the extreme, to have this additional load 
 put on my willing horse after two such days' work; 
 and besides, the squadron may have passed while we 
 were wandering about here. I curb my impatience as 
 well as I can, and at length we reach the road. There, 
 plain enough, is a cavalry trail, freshly made since we 
 turned off, and it tells its owti story — the squadron has 
 gone by. 
 
 ^'Captain," says the doctor from the ambulance, 
 "must you go back?" 
 
 "Yes, Doctor, I suppose I must." 
 
 "Well, if you must, here is your haversack." 
 
 "Thank you. Doctor; is there anything left in 
 yours ?" 
 
 "Yes; some hard biscuit and dry beef. I will put 
 them in for you." And the doctor transfers them from 
 his haversack to mine. 
 
 "E'ow, Bischoff, roll up the buffalo ; quick's the word ; 
 we must go back to within seven miles of Paris, and 
 the sun is setting." 
 
 "Good-by, Captain," calls the doctor as I start "I 
 hope you won't be hurt to-night." 
 
 "I hope not. Doctor; good-by. And now, Bischoff, 
 for the squadron and Holly Fork." 
 
VI 
 
 THE HOLLY FORK 
 
 WE rode rapidly along the wooded ridges. The 
 _^ fading daylight told us that the sun had set be- 
 hind his cloudy screen, and when we reached the main 
 road, there was light enough to show dimly the trail 
 turning toward Paris. In this cavalry service one be- 
 comes so attached to his constant companions by day and 
 by night, that you must forgive me for describing mine. 
 Bischoff's horse is a beautiful sorrel blood, high spir- 
 ited, yet quiet and gentle as a lamb. My own horse 
 is a prisoner from Fort Donelson. On the eventful 
 Sunday morning, I found him tied in a yard, near 
 where General Floyd too.k to his boat, and have no 
 doubt he was left by the runaway part of the garrison. 
 At first I was rather disposed not to buy him from the 
 Government, and it was more the desire to retain a 
 trophy of Fort Donelson than his merits that decided 
 the question. He is a fine Kentucky blood, but had 
 too many Southern traits — snorting when there was 
 nothing to snort at, quiet when alone but full of fuss 
 when anybody was by, and once seceding from the 
 smooth and travelled way, only to be brought back 
 by a good thrashing, which, indeed, was the basis of 
 our good understanding. But in this Paris journey, 
 his Arabian blood atoned for his Southern education. 
 
THE HOLLY FORK 65 
 
 It was refreshing to feel these high-bred horses rousing 
 themselves for their new march, as though it were the 
 beginning of a new day, breaking into a gallop where- 
 ever the road allowed, and dashing along without word 
 or spur as though just out of the stable. 
 
 On the summit of a long hill is a farm house, and 
 as we thus approached it on a gallop, I saw a group 
 of men, and rows of cavalry horses tied to the fences. 
 For a moment I thought my pursuit was over, but a 
 closer glance through the dim twilight told me these 
 were too few for the squadron — it was the picket guard 
 taking their last rest before going out on their posts 
 for the night. ^^Your men are about two miles ahead 
 of you. Captain," said the officer of the picket, and we 
 rode on. As we descended the next hill the last glim- 
 mer of daylight left us, and the darkness of a gloomy, 
 cloudy night shrouded the road. I had been riding rap- 
 idly while the daylight lasted, but so had the squadron. 
 Ordinarily, there would have been a halt before this, 
 to readjust saddles and examine pistols, but it was now 
 evident that while I was making every exertion to 
 overtake them, they were making every exertion to meet 
 me, I knew their orders must have been to proceed 
 till they should meet me, and I could imagine that they 
 supposed I was alone at the bridge, and were urging 
 their horses to my relief. "Confound that blockhead," 
 I was inclined to mutter ; but there was no help for his 
 blunder, save to hurry on. 
 
 A couple of miles beyond the picket guard, the road 
 
66 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 descends into a dreary swamp. It seems too dreary for 
 any creature to live in; bushes and trees have died, 
 and the tall, spectral trunks stand like ghosts of a de- 
 parted forest. Deep holes and fallen trees had made 
 the crossing no easy task in daytime, and I now ap- 
 proached it with some misgivings, and many wishes 
 that we were well over. 
 
 Tennessee led bravely down the bank, on a trot, cross- 
 ing the rickety bridge and plunging into the submerged 
 road without abating his speed. Here Bischoff fell be- 
 hind. His beautiful Ida had galloped since we turned 
 back, as though running a race; but this was a slough 
 of despond, through which she had to pick her way 
 with care. The instinct of my horse was wonderful. 
 Too dark for me to guide him, I threw the reins on his 
 neck and trusted everything to him. With his head 
 stretched out, he crossed and recrossed the invisible 
 road, avoiding its dangers, as it seemed to me, by pre- 
 cisely the same path he had picked out by daylight. 
 Several times branches dashed in my face, and once 
 my cap was nearly swept off; but with no other mis- 
 haps, I found we were approaching the opposite bank, 
 and soon felt his tread again on firm ground. I stopped 
 for a moment and listened, but could hear nothing of 
 the squadron before, or of Bischoff behind. I was alone 
 with my good horse. Yet, as I reached the top of the 
 next hill, I was greeted with a cheering sound — for 
 from a house in the distance came the yelps of its half 
 dozen dogs, and in a moment the yelp was repeated 
 
THE HOLLY FOEK 
 
 67 
 
 from the house beyond. I knew then where my men 
 were. At the same time, Tennessee, who had been dis- 
 posed to linger for Ida, started forward, showing that 
 by sight, or sound, or smell, he recognized his friends 
 ahead, and was greatly disposed to try whether they 
 were fresher than he. The swamp had brought the 
 squadron to a walk, and, for a few moments to a halt ; 
 and it was these few moments of delay that had enabled 
 m'e to close up the distance between us. 
 
 As I approached, I was somewhat soothed to find the 
 men were deserving a very big mark in "'deportment T 
 'No sound came from the silent column, save the tramp- 
 ling of the horses and the clanking of the sabres. A 
 night march in an enemy's country requires secrecy, 
 and the ordinary recreation of talk and song then has 
 to be laid aside. I was now close upon them, and, steal- 
 ing up to the rearmost man, I announced myself by the 
 command, ''Column— halt/' The long line of horses 
 stopped. Habit is a strong master. The unexpected 
 command, coming from the rear and in the darkness, 
 was obeyed as promptly as on parade. There was some 
 surprise, a few questions and explanations, a few min- 
 utes' rest (during which Bischoff arrived), a general 
 unslinging of canteens, and a great drinking of water ; 
 and then we pushed forward to finish the ten miles 
 which lay between us and the Holly Fork. 
 
 It was not so late but that the eyes of many little 
 folk I know were then open. Yet with the Tennesseeans 
 it is early to bed and early to rise (though truth com- 
 
68 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 pels me to add, thej are neither healthy, wealthy nor 
 wise), and every house was as still and dark as though 
 it were midnight. That morning in Paris, I had ob- 
 served the shutters upon the shops. It puzzled me at 
 first; then I whispered to the sergeant, ^^Is this Sun- 
 day V and he answered, ^^I really believe it is." This 
 was indeed Simday evening! and yet I could hardly 
 bring myself to believe that at the same hour, and while 
 we were passing these lightless houses, whose undis- 
 turbed inmates slept, unconscious that their dreaded 
 enemies were passing before their doors, in ]^ew York 
 the evening churches were not yet out, and the great 
 city was probably more wide awake than at any other 
 time of the preceding day. It was a contrast, too, those 
 crowded streets and this lonely road. 
 
 At last I recognized the houses near the Fork. On 
 the top of the hill, which overlooks the bridge, a cross- 
 road runs parallel to the brook. The road then descends 
 the hill, and is carried, upon a long and narrow cause- 
 way, to the bridge. A second causeway leads to the op- 
 posite bank, and on this bank a timber tobacco-barn 
 commands the road beyond. We were then within seven 
 miles of Paris, where six hundred of King's cavalry 
 had been but two days before. It was possible they had 
 returned — possible, indeed, that the Memphis railroad 
 had brought up five thousand troops since I left there 
 in the morning, I halted, therefore, a moment for 
 preparation. The fourth (being the last) platoon was 
 ordered to stop at the cross-road, and guard against 
 
THE HOLLY rOEK 69 
 
 our being surprised in the rear. With the remaining 
 three I descended the hill. The second and third stayed 
 at the beginning of the causeway, and the first, under 
 command of the second lieutenant, was ordered to cross 
 the bridge, and take possession of the tobacco-barn on 
 the bank. 
 
 A dense wood covers the bridge and the causeway; 
 and the beautiful evergreen that gives its name to the 
 stream added much to the darkness of the night; so 
 much that the road looked almost like the entrance of 
 a cavern^ the branches overarching above and shading 
 the dark passage-way below. Into this woodland tun- 
 nel the first platoon slowly rode. We watched them as 
 they disappeared, and then listened to the sound of 
 their horses rumbling and clattering on the bridge. In 
 a minute more they had crossed; and then, about as 
 long as it would reasonably take to give an alarm, there 
 came, or seemed to come, from the other side, perhaps 
 half a mile distant, the long roll of a drum. I was at 
 the head of the column, and heard it distinctly; and 
 the men behind me instantly whispered, "There's a 
 drum." Our immediate inference was that the enemy 
 were on the other side, and, hearing our horses tramp- 
 ling on the bridge, were beating to arms. Thinking it 
 would not do to crowd more troops on the narrow cause- 
 way until the first platoon had gained the opposite bank, 
 I ordered them to follow if I fired my pistol, and rode 
 forward to join the first. The galloping of my horse 
 roused the bull-frogs, and they bellowed so loudly that 
 
To SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 I thought I might hereafter believe the stories often 
 told of their frightening armies into a retreat. But 
 above them came, from different points, ^ve or six hide- 
 ous half-human yells, as though sentinels were giving 
 signals of our approach. They were, however, too near 
 and too irregular for that, and evidently came from the 
 trees ; so that I quickly concluded that some night birds 
 were the callers, and afterward ascertained them to be 
 a species of Southern owl. In less time than I am 
 writing this I had crossed, and found the platoon quietly 
 examining the tobacco-barn. I asked about the drum. 
 They had not heard it, and stoutly insisted there could 
 have been none. I waited until some men who had 
 been sent on returned, and reported the road was empty 
 and quiet for a mile ahead; and then, directing the 
 lieutenant to place videttes in advance, and if attacked 
 to draw up his horses in the rear of the barn and let 
 his men fire through the logs until the main body should 
 arrive, I recrossed the bridge. The men were still 
 mounted, and waiting for the signal to advance. I in- 
 formed them of what the first platoon had said, and they 
 as stoutly insisted that there was a drum, because they 
 had heard it. Whether it was indeed some small party 
 of rebels beating an alarm, or the footfalls of our own 
 horses rolling from the bridge, and echoed back from 
 some distant hill, I leave you to determine. 
 
 I now turned my attention to preparations for the 
 night. At the foot of the hill, and near the beginning 
 of the causeway, a little country store stood empty and 
 
THE HOLLY FORK 71 
 
 deserted. A fire ^as soon kindled, and its counter and 
 shelves moved out of the way. All of the horses were 
 kept saddled, and the men divided into two watches. 
 One platoon, during the first half of the night, stood by 
 their horses ready to mount in a moment, and then 
 changed with the other for such rest as they could 
 gather from the floor of the little building. The first 
 platoon remained across the creek as a picket-guard 
 toward Paris, and the fourth in the rear as a picket 
 for the cross-roads. I have been thus minute in order 
 that you may have a clear idea of the manner in which 
 such affairs are managed, and because I have never ob- 
 served in the newspapers any narrative or statement 
 which explains these details to friends at home. Per- 
 haps you will ask, "What is a picket?" The papers 
 constantly speak of our pickets being "thrown out," or 
 the enemy's being "driven in," but never tell what sort 
 of creatures these pickets are. The pickets are sentinels 
 beyond the camp gTiard, and toward the enemy. There 
 may be a chain of pickets stretching over the country ; 
 and the picket-guard may be very large, or it may con- 
 sist of a sergeant and six men. These are divided into 
 three "relieves," which constitute the "videttes," or 
 ^^lookout," as we might translate it. Toward evening 
 they pass out several miles upon the road they are to 
 guard, and then select a place for the night, but this 
 they do not occupy till after dark; the sergeant then 
 goes out with the first "relief," and "posts" them, se- 
 lecting a place where they can see without being seen. 
 
T2 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 The two on duty must remain mounted, and silent; 
 the others may dismount, but not unsaddle; nor can 
 they build a camp-fire, nor indulge in any noise. After 
 an hour the sergeant takes out the second ^ ^relief" and 
 relieves the first, and then the third to relieve the sec- 
 ond. 
 
 After visiting the videttes, I agreed to relieve my lieu- 
 tenant at three in the morning, and then returned to 
 the little store, unbuckled my buffalo, and was soon 
 stretched with the men on the floor. It seemed as 
 though I had been there but a few seconds, when I was 
 roused by some one laying his hand on my shoulder 
 and saying '^Captain !" in a low voice. You wake 
 quickly under such circumstances, and I was on my feet 
 in an instant, demanding what was the matter. ^'E^oth- 
 ing; it's a quarter to three." "Indeed! that's a very 
 soft floor." And I went out and remounted. The 
 clouds were gone and the moon shone brilliant in the 
 clear sky. At the tobacco-barn I found all quiet. The 
 sentinel paced up and down in front, watching lest 
 there should be an alarm from the videttes ; and the 
 men were stretched on some tobacco stalks within, sleep- 
 ing as soundly without blankets as though on beds of 
 down. It was time to relieve the videttes. "Call up 
 the next relief." The sentinel goes in, shakes the next 
 three, drops dovni himself, and in a minute is sound 
 asleep. Of the three men who come out, one takes his 
 place and the other two mount their horses. I had not 
 personally relieved guard since at Camp Asboth last 
 
THE HOLLY FOEK 73 
 
 October, and was struck with the difference which prac- 
 tice and discipline had made. Then the men came out, 
 one by one, half asleep, growling and yawning; now 
 they were up at the first touch, wide awake, and appar- 
 ently as willing as though called to breakfast. 
 
 On the crest of a hill, about a mile up the road, the 
 videttes were posted. Seated silent and motionless, on 
 their horses, in front of a house, they looked in the 
 moonlight like equestrian statues placed at the gateway. 
 "Have you seen or heard anything ?" "No, sir." "Has 
 everything been quiet in this house ?" "Yes, sir." 
 "Well, you are relieved, and may cross the bridge ; there 
 is a fire in the store, and it is quite comfortable." Sit- 
 ting thus motionless for hours in the chill night air, 
 when the white frost is settling like snow on field and 
 road, is no pleasant duty, and the mention of the fire 
 was an unexpected gleam of comfort to the men. As 
 they hastened back we rode slowly on, partly to see if 
 the road was clear, partly that the new relief might the 
 better understand the ground they had to watch; and 
 then I returned to the barn, where, fastening my horse, 
 I paced up and do^\Ti and resorted to the usual methods 
 of keeping warm. I glanced at my watch ; but half an 
 hour had gone, and two and a half remained. Time 
 passes very slowly under such circumstances. Reliev- 
 ing the videttes broke in upon the monotony. "The 
 people are stirring in the house, they have just started 
 a fire," was the report. "Don't let any of them go up 
 the road on any pretext ;" and I rode back to the barn. 
 
74 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 How surprised tliey will be, I thought, when they come 
 out and find two "armed invaders" have been watching 
 over them while they slept. When I next came my 
 round the man of the house had just come out. He 
 merely glanced at us, walked by, giving a sulky nod, 
 and proceeded to feed his pigs with as much indiffer- 
 ence as though it were nothing to him whether a whole 
 regiment of Yankees were in front of his door, or a 
 hundred miles off. 
 
 So passed the time till a bright light gleamed through 
 the trees toward the east. The sentinel saw it fi.rst. 
 "Is that a fire. Captain?'' he asked. 'No; it was the 
 morning star. Slowly it seemed to climb the trees, 
 moving steadily from branch to branch till it beamed 
 from the clear sky above. Then came a belt of pale 
 silver light, which grew brighter and brighter, until it 
 turned to crimson; and then rose the sun. Our watch 
 is over. "Call up the men, Sergeant; order the 
 second platoon across; and take a man and go two 
 miles up the road and see if there are any rebels 
 there." 
 
 We passed a busy day. Parties were sent out, up 
 and down the brook, to see if there were bridges or 
 fords near us, and to ascertain where the cross-roads 
 ran ; others for forage ; and one toward Paris, to watch 
 any movement there. Guards were placed to stop per- 
 sons on the road, so that no information might be car- 
 ried to the enemy. I explored the banks of the brook 
 near us, to make sure that no party could cross and at- 
 
THE HOLLY FOEK 75 
 
 tack us unexpectedly during the coming night. Late 
 in the afternoon I had my horse unsaddled, spread my 
 buffalo on the floor, pulled off my boots, and laid down 
 for a good sleep before my night-watch commenced. 
 Hardly down, ere an ofiicer arrived from camp. An- 
 other squadron was coming to relieve us, and we were 
 to return immediately. The men who had been on duty 
 all day were asleep; their horses were all down too; 
 our arrangements were all nicely completed for the 
 night ; but we must go. ^'Call in the videttes and sad- 
 dle up," were the orders; and soon w^e were march- 
 ing back. So ended my first experience in guarding 
 bridges, and my care of the bridge over the Holly 
 Fork. 
 
 There is in our school ^^Readers" a certain lesson 
 about a vagrant little brook, wherein is told that ^^the 
 glossy-green and coral clusters of the holly flung down 
 reflections in rich profusion on the little pool visited 
 by a ray of softer sunshine," etc. These words (if I 
 recollect them rightly) were printed in different ^'Read- 
 ers" in different ways; sometimes a hyphen between 
 glossy-green, sometimes a comma; and again no mark 
 whatever. A fearful wilderness of words it was, in 
 which scholars and teachers, and even principals, at 
 examinations and other important times and seasons, 
 have gone astray: whoever then correctly construed 
 "glossy-green" and "visited," could do what no one 
 else could. While standing guard at the bridge there 
 came to me the memories of the reading lesson — of the 
 
76 
 
 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 one who succeeded and the many who failed — of dis- 
 concerted faces and puzzled looks, and the Holly Fork 
 became associated with the lesson, as hereafter (should 
 I ever return to North Moore Street) the lesson will 
 doubtless call to mind the Holly Fork. 
 
VII 
 
 SCOUTING 
 
 IT is a pleasant Spring morning, and I am ordered 
 to take my company and ^'scout to and beyond Con- 
 yersville, with two days' rations.'' There is a stir and 
 bustle through our tents, and great delight at the 
 thought of going out. Some are bringing up horses 
 from the picket ropes ; others are rolling blankets, and 
 strapping them behind the saddles ; others are packing 
 away coffee, pork and hard biscuit in a pair of rude 
 saddle-bags which we have made from an old tent, and 
 now carry on a led horse. Soon Bischoff leads his horse 
 and mine up to the tent, and soon after the first ser- 
 geant reports all ready. The men are drawn up in 
 line; they ^'count off by fours;" the order is given, 
 ^'by twos to the right," and we are marching slowly 
 over the high hills and through the tall oaks which 
 belt the Tennessee. 
 
 Though it is a March morning, the air is as soft and 
 balmy as it will be in iSTew York next May ; and in the 
 distance, the opening buds throw a mist-like haze over 
 the forests. Here and there a crow starts from some 
 tall tree, and caws familiarly as he flies away; and 
 high over head the chicken-hawk sails round and round 
 as we have often seen him do at home. When first we 
 came here last February, there were robins in these 
 
78 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 woods and many [^Torthern birds, who seemed sad and 
 songless, and behaved like invalids passing the winter 
 at the South. The meadow lark spread her wings lan- 
 guidly, and the robins sat listless on the apple trees as 
 though they were homesick, and, like us, longed to fly 
 back to their ISTorthern nests. The blackbirds alone 
 kept up their spirits, flying around and across such 
 fields as they could find in rapid, veering, fitful 
 flight — 
 
 "And here in spring the veeries sing 
 The song of long 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 
 
SCOUTINQ 79 
 
 wilds are many farms and houses, whose owners love 
 seclusion, and hide themselves from each other by a 
 veil of intervening forest. 
 
 In one of these there lives an elderly man named 
 Patterson. When first by accident we rode past his 
 door, one of the men said ''He looks more like a Union 
 man than any one we have seen yet;" and we soon 
 learnt that he was a Philadelphian, who had wandered 
 to Tennessee many years ago for health: he had mar- 
 ried here, settled and become a Tennesseean. 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 
 overhead" and the floor beneath, or of one long house 
 w^th 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 o^vner had 
 
80 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 been long away. Two small boys appear — ^very fright- 
 ened and very civil. 
 
 ^ 'Where is your father, my boy ?" I ask of the elder. 
 
 "In the army, sir." 
 
 "The Southern armyf' 
 
 "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 yuli 
 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 fol- 
 low to the house. We ask, what can the matter be; 
 it looks as though a thunderstorm 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 
 
SCOUTING 81 
 
 thejVe been troubled 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 ap- 
 proaches the house, and laugh as we observe the in- 
 mates rapidly retire from door and windows. Then 
 one contraband comes bravely out, to whom the lieu- 
 tenant 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 
 w^re the first United States soldiers they had seen, and 
 they didn't know but w^e would bum the house and 
 kill them ; they had run to the house, because it was 
 "nat'ral," and they didn't know where else to run. 
 
 But evening approaches and I must choose a camp- 
 ing ground for the night. On our left, half a mile back 
 from the road, I can see a large house, surrounded with 
 many stacks and corn-cribs. It belongs to Major Thorn- 
 ton, 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 in- 
 deed hidden from us by some woods, but for half an 
 
82 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 hour 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." 
 ^Torm 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 con- 
 ference with the captain, and then we ride into Con- 
 j'ersville. 
 
 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 be- 
 cause it is too early to go there, partly to the better 
 mislead any one who might follow us. At last, as it 
 
SCOUTING 83 
 
 grows dark, we come to a second road, which turns off 
 at a sharp angle and goes to the major's; and this we 
 take. It runs through thick woods — through a swamp 
 — along the edge of a little millpond — over its rickety 
 bridge, and close to its little mill. It is so dark, in- 
 deed, 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 peo- 
 ple than usual, they have not gone to bed. Now walk- 
 ing 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, Ma- 
 jor 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 con- 
 trabands, very loyal and cheerful, assist us to the ma- 
 nor's oats. They enjoy feeding the United States horses 
 
84 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 at the major's expense immensely, and insist on throw- 
 ing down from the stack a dozen more sheaves than we 
 want. ^'It 'nil do them 'ere hosses of yonrn so much 
 good — they don't get oats every day — oats mighty scarce 
 in this country; and the major he's nothin' but a se- 
 cesher," 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 cornstalks and make a bed." 
 Meanwhile I have a private talk with one of the con- 
 trabands, and learn all I can about the roads around 
 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 slaves. 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 
 
SCOUTING 86 
 
 service, and it will be too bad to make them sleep out 
 in the cold. But the men must sleep together, and by 
 their horses ; so her good-natured offer is declined. Be- 
 side Mlrs. Thornton there sits a good-natured little 
 daughter, with light hair and blue eyes, and the pretty 
 name of ]^elly. Miss l^elly 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 pic- 
 tures of knights on horseback and ladies in swoons, all 
 looking so familiar that I almost expect to hear a news- 
 boy run round the corner, shouting ''Ledger! New Yorh 
 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 
 
86 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 up : the men for picket mount 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. N^othing, 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 N^elly is up to see us off, and her pleasant little 
 face smiles and bows happily from the piazza. Mrs. 
 
SCOUTING 87 
 
 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 chim- 
 ney, from which the smoke is rising briskly. These 
 Tennesseean 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 w^ill meet 
 women on mules, often with a child or two perched on 
 behind — or perhaps a mother carrying her baby in her 
 arms, and mounted on a sober old mare, whose little 
 colt frisks merrily around. 
 
 We have not met any though this morning, and at 
 eight o'clock have travelled back to the Paris road, and 
 to within four miles of Paris. Here we halt for break- 
 fast. The men whose turn it is for picket ride on a 
 mile or two down the road; the others dismount. The 
 
88 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 two who act as cooks take possession of a little out- 
 kitchen, and proceed to fry the bacon and boil the cof- 
 fee. 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 barnyard 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 break- 
 fast, which is ready. 
 
 This duty done, we resume the march. I am ordered 
 not to enter Paris, and therefore turn off and strike 
 across the country, to regain the direct road from Paris 
 to the Holly Fork. A very blind road it is, winding 
 through woods, and frequently lost. Yet here are wide 
 plantations, shut in from the rest of the world, with 
 their large houses, and chickens and beehives, to all 
 
SCOUTING 89 
 
 appearances 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 farthest from me dived down in 
 her pocket, and, after rummaging there a minute, 
 brought up — 
 
90 SKETCHES OF THE WAK 
 
 "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 fighting to protect from the 
 pollution of us Yankees) and indulged in a little social 
 spitting. It is embarrassing, if you are not used to it, 
 to ask a country belle a question, and then have her 
 turn her head suddenly the other w^ay and spit before 
 she answers. The first time we witnessed this interest- 
 ing 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 to- 
 bacco?" 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 
 
SCOUTING 91 
 
 people — some odd and obsolete, and some better and 
 more correct than our own. Thus, for our awkward 
 ^^get down," they have "alight." Instead of saying 
 "How early did you get up this morning ?" they would 
 say, "How early did you arise?" Eolations, relatives, 
 and connections they call kinfolk; and these are never 
 well dressed, but well clad. A horse-path is known as 
 a bridle-road; a brook as a branch, and a stream as a 
 fork. One man complimented Bischoif by saying he 
 was the most chirk young fellow in the regiment ; and 
 a young lady praised her own horse by telling me that 
 Gipsy might run fast, but she couldn't tote double. 
 
 But two or three miles down this road we come to a 
 gate, on which three little contrabands hang grinning. 
 Very quickly they drop down and swing open the gate ; 
 and very glad they are to see us, whatever "missus" 
 may be. Within this gate is a fine open grove, and 
 through it are seen a small timber house, some con- 
 traband 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. 
 
 "JSTo, 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." 
 
92 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 ^'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?" 
 
 ^'1^0, 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 clean- 
 ing their horses. With one of the sergeants, I stroll 
 out to the road. We cross it and walk a few yards, 
 to ffet a view of some fields bevond. As we are look- 
 ing 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 gallop- 
 ing — and there's more than one too." 
 
 We both spring for the gate. 
 
 "Shall I order the men to fall in?" asks the ser- 
 geant. 
 
 "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 
 
SCOUTING 93 
 
 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, sail ; 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, sail ; they likes it. Wliy, 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 incon- 
 sistencies 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; 
 
94 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 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 f 
 
 "l^Oy 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." 
 
 IsTow, 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 every- 
 body, and everybody had been very polite to us, and 
 none more so than these visitors. When we left I com- 
 placently 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!" 
 
SCOUTING 95 
 
 There's a compliment for us, thinks I. I must tell 
 the doctor of that- — and how favorably we impressed 
 them I 
 
 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 be- 
 side them. The pickets have gone out, and the senti- 
 nel moves slowly backward and forward near the gate. 
 I walk dov^n 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 con- 
 cealed from everybody but the commanding officer and 
 the officers of the day and of the guard. ^Mien any 
 person is to be sent through the lines, one of these 
 officers may give him the countersign, and it only will 
 
96 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 enable him to pass. If I had not had the countersign, 
 it Avould 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 Wil- 
 liam 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 
 farther 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 lookout, 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 ser- 
 geant is rousing the next relief. 
 
SCOUTING 97 
 
 "Walter," I saj 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 cheerful- 
 ness, "I'l be very careful." 
 
 And then he turns toward his saddled horse, tightens 
 the girth, and unhitches the rein. 
 
 He cannot be thinking of himself, for as I walk away 
 I hear him softly singing: 
 
 "Soft be thy slumbers, 
 Rude cares depart, 
 Visions in numbers 
 
 Cheer thy young heart." 
 
 And with "Sweet Ellen Bayne" ringing in my ears, 
 I lie down beside the camp-fire and fall asleep. 
 
A 
 
 VIII 
 
 A SURPRISE 
 
 FAIREE May-day never dawned than that which 
 greeted us last spring in Tennessee, 
 
 "When the box- tree, white with blossoms, 
 Made the sweet May woodlands glad;" 
 
 and the green hills and fresh-leaved trees were hung 
 resplendent in yellow, white and purple flowers. 
 
 My first sergeant and myself sat after breakfast be- 
 neath 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 com- 
 plete our rolls. 
 
 Suddenly, on the still, damp air of the morning, there 
 came, echoing from Fort Henry, the boom of a cannon. 
 We started. "What does that mean ?" A week before 
 there had been a rumor one evening that Memphis was 
 taken, and the colonel at the fort had sent us word that 
 
A SUKPKISE 
 
 90 
 
 if 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. "^Yhat can it be ? 
 something has happened." ''Ko, nothing has hap- 
 pened; 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." "Tm sure there won't." A si- 
 lence—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. 
 
100 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 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 Or- 
 leans." 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 fol- 
 low 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, 
 
A SURPKISE 101 
 
 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 f^om camp we halted at a sparkling 
 brook to adjust saddles and water horses. The squad- 
 ron was marching in three platoons, with an interval 
 of a hundred yards between them. The first came up, 
 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 
 
102 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 heard nothing 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 peoj)le'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 in- 
 trude, 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 re- 
 iterated 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 com- 
 pany 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 
 wj putting the horses, and from which stacks we should 
 get forage. There were woods on the right of the 
 house; the meii filed into them, and in a few minutes 
 fires were lighted, horses picketed, and we were biv- 
 ouacked 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 
 
A SUEPEISE 103 
 
 and position to the simple country people among whom 
 we had hitherto been thrown. I afterwards learnt that 
 one son was then at Richmond, a member of the Con- 
 federate government, and another with Beauregard at 
 Corinth. 1 began the conversation by hoping that she 
 had recovered from her alarm. She said, ^'Oh, en- 
 tirely," 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 in- 
 trude, and that I intended my promise to apply to my- 
 self 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 houscroom 
 to offer, "^^fy daughter plays," shc^ said ; "perhaps you 
 like music." I said that I liked music exceedingly and 
 should be most happy to hear some, and as I was fin- 
 ishing 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 cor- 
 ner near the fire. "Bell," said Miss Ayres, "carry the 
 candles into the other room." The little black girl un- 
 curled herself, and seizing the candles, marched into the 
 other room. There she placed the candles on the piano, 
 and immediately popped imder it and curled herself 
 up again on the floor. I moved round and took my po- 
 
104 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 sition 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, what must I play ?" Had she slapped me 
 in the face I should not have been more astounded. It 
 was evident that she was in the same frame of mind 
 her mother had been in at the gate. But I had been so 
 particularly civil that this cut was too unexpected. I 
 felt my color rise, but kept my temper down, and in- 
 wardly resolved that her little ladyship should take this 
 back before our acquaintance ended ; so I answered, al- 
 most sweetly, that I would leave that to Miss Ayres^ 
 better taste! We had a little contest then, she trying 
 to make me order something and I trying to make her 
 select the piece. It was a drawn game, and ended in 
 her suggesting a couple of pieces, and my saying 
 "Either of them." 
 
 An hour passed very agreeably, and when I arose to 
 go all coolness had entirely vanished, and the invita- 
 tion to stay was really cordial. But it was an inflex- 
 ible 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 prepar- 
 ing to resume our march, there came a message from 
 
A SURPRISE 105 
 
 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 gath- 
 ered overhead. 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 invita- 
 tion to the house, and paid another visit more agree- 
 able than the first. As I came out, the rain was com- 
 ing 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 
 terniinating 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 vicAv, 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 any- 
 thing was the matter. We went a few steps farther, 
 and I found we had passed the woods and were descend- 
 ing the hill. Still no challenge. It would seem the 
 simplest thing in the world to call out, but this could 
 
106 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 not be done — here tliej must challenge lis. Suddenly, 
 close behind us, and in a very startled tone, came 
 "Who comes there f' and with it the "click," "click'' 
 of a pistol. I answered just in time ; for in the 
 darkness, and amid the beating of the storm, we 
 had passed them unseen and unheard, and they 
 thought that we were a party approaching from the 
 opposite direction, and in another moment would have 
 fired. 
 
 Day came at last — a drizzly, rainy day — and we set 
 out for Como. The country was new to us, and much 
 better than we had yet seen in Tennessee. There were 
 groups of contrabands at every house, reminding us 
 that it was Sunday; and we passed a little church, 
 whose congregation was within, their saddled horses 
 tied around the building. We all remarked that the 
 people seemed more cheerful than any we had seen; 
 and soon a man we met took off his hat, and said, "The 
 Union, the Constitution, and the Enforcement of the 
 Laws;" yet we had seen so little patriotism in Ten- 
 nessee that we doubted this. At length we reached 
 Como, and stopped in the barnyards of a leading se- 
 cessionist. Hardly had we dismounted, when a large, 
 good-looking man followed us into the yard, and said, 
 "I'm truly glad to see you, gentlemen, you've come at 
 just the right time." He then introduced himself to 
 me as Mr. Hurt, of Como ; and said that his house was 
 a quarter of a mile back — he had seen us pass — he had 
 run after us — he was a Union citizen — all must go 
 
A suRrmsE 107 
 
 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, ladylike 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 send- 
 ing 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 aj)proved and ordered me to 
 execute. 
 
 My plan was very simple — to take twenty-five of my 
 b(?st-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 
 
108 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 had better pick out tliose who had the freshest horses — 
 there might be a good deal of riding to do. In a little 
 Yv'hiie 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 sen{ 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. 
 Throe 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 
 iirmly 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 little 
 
A SURPRISE 109 
 
 man both laughed and cried, and said, ''Oh, my dear 
 friends, you do not know what sufferings I have been 
 through since I left you !" He was their Yankee school- 
 master. For ten years he had lived quietly there, but 
 a year before had been ordered off, and narrowly es- 
 caped being hanged. 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 i.p 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 itr 
 
 "These men say there are three thousand rebel cav- 
 alry 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 earnest- 
 ness. "Mr. Ashby saw them, and sent us over here to 
 tell you, and the other Union people ; and we have run 
 our horses all the way across." 
 
110 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 I glanced at the horses : they were covered with foam 
 and mild. I looked at Mr. Hurt : his face had suddenly 
 grown very serious. 
 
 "Did Edward Ashby see them himself?" he asked 
 in a low tone. 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "And he told you himself?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "Then, Captain," he said, turning to me, "it is so." 
 
 There was a moment of dreary silence. 
 
 "How long were they passing Mr. Ashby's?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "Three hours." 
 
 "Which way were they going?" 
 
 "Toward Paris." 
 
 "How far is it from Caledonia to Paris ?" 
 
 "Twelve miles." 
 
 I knew that three thousand was a reasonable esti- 
 mate. I also knew they must have heard of our where- 
 about, and that a party might be coming up the road 
 at any moment ; yet I ventured one more question : 
 
 "What troops did they say they were ?" 
 
 "Jeff. Thompson's." 
 
 "Jeff. Thompson's ! That is very strange. Where 
 did they say they were going ?" 
 
 "They said they'd come for provisions and Union 
 men." 
 
 This answer completed the distress of those around 
 me. The cousin looked toward the woods; the little 
 
A SURPRISE 111 
 
 schoolmaster asked if he might not stay with his child 
 just this one night? Mr. Hurt said that he meant to 
 risk it till morning, while his wife said that he must 
 ilj at once : thej 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 do\\Ti 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 to^vn of Dresden. 
 
 I went into the house, and talked to the ladies of the 
 
112 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 family. They were wealthy secessionists, and it was 
 advisable to conceal, as far as possible, our movements. 
 As ten o'clock approached I slipped out, and ordered 
 the men to mount and be perfectly still. Then return- 
 ing, I said to the ladies that they must not feel alarmed 
 if they heard our pickets and guards during the night, 
 and, bidding them good evening, went out. I saw, 
 dimly, the men drawn up in line. 
 
 ''Bischoff," I called, in a suppressed tone, ^Svhere 
 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 cap- 
 tains — the men Avheeled 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 homespun 
 blankets, joined us — picturesque but sad exiles, in keep- 
 ing with the wild and stormy night. They were our 
 guides, and but for them we could not have found our 
 way through the hidden road. 
 
 ^'Well, Quartermaster," I said to the young officer 
 who rode beside me, ^'this is our first retreat." 
 
 ^^Yes," he answered; ^^and a most appropriate night 
 for a first retreat." 
 
 It was not improbable that we should be attacked in 
 the rear; and not improbable that a party had been 
 
A SUKPRISE _ 113 
 
 sent round to intercept us in front; and every sound 
 seemed the signal for an affray. Occasionally the 
 wagons became snagged, and word would be passed up 
 the column ; a halt would be ordered ; men would dis- 
 mount, feel for the wagon and disentangle it from 
 some tree or stump; word would be passed up again, 
 and we Avould resume our march. Thus about three in 
 the morning, we approached Dresden, when I unex- 
 pectedly 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 tlie 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 
 hav. 
 
 We waited all the morning, and about one in the 
 
114 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 afternoon started, still moving northwardly toward 
 Paducali. Tlie road was hard and good ; the sun came 
 out, drying our wet clothes, and everything seemed 
 promising and pleasant. As we passed the first house 
 the family appeared in front of the door, and waved a 
 little flag. It was the first flag we had seen in Ten- 
 nessee. My squadron, which led the column, broke into 
 rapturous applause as they caught sight of the starry 
 emblem ; and as each of the others came up, wondering 
 what could have caused the commotion, they repeated 
 the cheers. A cavalcade of Union men accompanied 
 us, and as we approached their homes they would dash 
 ahead and notify their families that we were coming. 
 At every house the inmates appeared, waving hand- 
 kerchiefs 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, she added, with a 
 
A SURPKISE 115 
 
 bitter emphasis I cannot describe, that they were rebels, 
 and we might capture them or kill them ; but she wished 
 we would hill 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 Lock- 
 ridge Mill. On the right I saw a large white house 
 surrounded by a garden; on the left a barnyard with 
 an eight-rail fence; in front and beyond us, the Obion 
 and the mill. 
 
 "We vnW stay here to-night,'^ said the major. 
 
 "Left into line. March. Be prepared to leave at a 
 moment's notice,'' I said to my men, "and to saddle 
 up in the dark. Break ranks." 
 
 The men scattered through the yard, picketing their 
 horses. The second squadron picketed theirs on the 
 outside of the yard, and the third went back to the 
 farms on the edge of the valley, to act as a rear guard. 
 
 "Where will you put our horses, Bischoff ?" 
 
 "At this tree in the yard. Captain," said Bischoff. 
 
 "Very well; I must see if there are any pickets 
 wanted between us and the rear guard." And I turned 
 my horse and rode slowly back. 
 
 It was a noble valley, smooth as a floor, and covered 
 with huge oaks and elms. I came to the third squad- 
 ron ; they had dismounted ; their horses were tied to the 
 fences ; their lieutenant had gone out with their pickets ; 
 and their captain came up and laughingly said he had 
 taken a prisoner, and introduced me to a lieutenant of 
 
116 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 an Illinois regiment, who had just ridden in. He was 
 a very handsome and intelligent young man, and in- 
 formed us that he was a Tennesseean, and had come to 
 see if recruits could not be found there. He seemed 
 greatly elated at being back in his own State, and as 
 we rode along I remarked to myself how hopeful and 
 happy he was. We arrived at the house and dis- 
 mounted ; I gave my horse to one of the men and went 
 in to introduce Mr. Crawford to the major. Him we 
 found in an upper room. He had taken off his jacket 
 and w^as 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 horse with an 
 empty saddle. I knew what that meant. 
 
 ^^Saddle up, and fall in," I shouted to the men ; "and 
 you men in the house call the major; tell him we are 
 attacked." 
 
 I looked for my horse, but he had disappeared. I 
 
A SUEPRISE 117 
 
 rushed to the barnyard, and there saw the man who 
 had held him. 
 
 "Hamelder," I cried, 'Svhat 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. 
 
 "Xever 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 w^as not in sight, 
 and I found myself the ranking officer there. ^^I must 
 act, it is no time to wait for orders," I said, as I looked 
 up the valley, and saw the head of the rebel column. 
 
118 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 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, ^Svild 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 squad- 
 ron rushed frantically 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 buckshot flew thickly, 
 wounding men and horses, while there rose the thun- 
 dering 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 re-formed, I moved to 
 the right and looked back. Hitherto, I had seen but 
 the head of their column, and had formed no idea of its 
 
A SUKmiSE 119 
 
 strength, l^ow I saw, far up the valley, a solid un- 
 broken 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 
 v/hat was needed. Instead of going to the gate, he 
 turned and rushed at the fence. It was higher than 
 himself, and Bischoff thought they were lost; but the 
 little horse gave a tremendous bound, and came bravely 
 over. They were now neck and neck with the rebels; 
 it was a race to the bridge. The little horse won, and 
 dashed over ahead of their foremost horses. But he 
 was only ahead — there were not six feet between them, 
 
120 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 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 leap- 
 ing a tree, or mired in struggling through a mud hole. 
 Here was one who had risen, and was trying to escape 
 to the neighboring woods, and there another, who could 
 not extricate himself from his fallen horse. As I looked 
 back and watched the fate of those I knew, I saw the 
 first of the enemy, as they came up, fire upon our pros- 
 trate men. It looked as though 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 frac- 
 tious, reared and phmged so that I could not stop. I 
 called to the captain to take another horse, led by one 
 of the men. He did so, but in a few moments was 
 thrown, and before he could rise found himself sur- 
 rounded and a prisoner. 
 
 At length we emerged from this to us dark vale, and 
 felt our horses tread firm ground. We had gained a 
 little on the enemy, and were just beyond the reach of 
 
191 
 A SUEPBISE '■^'■ 
 
 their -ims. 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 es- 
 caped 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 fanner, 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 cus- 
 tomary 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: 
 «0h 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 
 ,nen, 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 Hiekman, and continued on the 
 
 Paducah road. . . i „„ ;* 
 
 Gibbs fell out of the column, and rejoined me as it 
 
 parsed. I told him he had better not run this unneces- 
 
 Li-v risk; but he said he had been offered $200 for his 
 
 mule, and would risk anything with it. Bischoff also 
 
122 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 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 o^vn gave a 
 wild bound. Poor Tennessee ! he had been acting nobly 
 from the first, and 1 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; 1 
 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 wind- 
 ings, and kept straight on. It was like a locomotive 
 rushing through the woods. There were two trees be- 
 
A SURPRISE 123 
 
 fore 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, '%ust 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 ?" !N'o ! 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. 
 
IX 
 
 THE ESCAPE 
 
 I WAS now alone in the quiet woods. The sounds 
 of trampling horses had died away, and the little 
 rill beside me trickled peacefully in the still night. I 
 reached my hand down, and, filling my glove with 
 water, poured it over my face. It was cool and re- 
 freshing, and in a few moments I was able to rise. I 
 looked at the stream — at the log, beneath which lay 
 my sabre — and at the tree, beneath which lay my horse ; 
 and then, making an effort, I stepped upon the log, and 
 crossed into the thick brushwood on the other side. But 
 a few steps were taken when I was glad to sit down upon 
 the fallen tree. I felt stunned and faint, yet hoped I 
 was gathering strength and would soon be able to go 
 on. As I was thus seated the question arose. What 
 should I do ? Fort Henry, I knew, was eastward of 
 me. Should I go there ? — it was but thirty-five or forty 
 miles. Xo ! the country between must be swarming 
 with rebels. Should I go to Paducah ? It was sixty 
 miles northward, and the enemy would, doubtless, fol- 
 low in that direction. Should I remain hidden in the 
 woods, trusting to their leaving in a few days ? Should 
 I crawl to some barn or stack, and take the chance of 
 their not searching it ? Would my strength hold out 
 if I went on ? and would the fractured bone, that I felt 
 
THE ESCAPE 125 
 
 under my coat, and tlie growing pain in my side, do 
 without the surgeon's care till I could make my way out ? 
 
 At length I decided on my course : I would go north- 
 ward till daylight, and thus be some miles ahead ; then 
 I would turn eastward, and thus place myself on one 
 side of their probable line of march. During the next 
 day I hoped to meet a contraband, and, obtaining in- 
 formation, then decide whether to continue eastward, 
 toward Fort Henry, or turn northward again to 
 Paducah. 
 
 Thus deciding, I took out my handkerchief and tied 
 my pistol round my waist, and then rose from the tree 
 to begin my journey. The broken ribs made it painful 
 to breathe, and my right arm had to be supported con- 
 stantly by my left. Around me all was beautiful and 
 serene. The calm moon shone, in peaceful contrast 
 with the exciting scene I had lately witnessed, and 
 lighted my steps and pointed my way. Ko sound dis- 
 turbed the stillness of the woods, save that from a dis- 
 tant farm there came the tinkle of a cow-bell. It was 
 in the direction I wished to go, and toward it I slowly 
 made my way. A friend had brought me down the 
 April number of the Atlantic before leaving camp, and 
 I had read Whittier's ^'Mountain Pictures." A line 
 of it came to my mind : 
 
 "The pastoral curfew of the eow-bell rung;" 
 and I wondered whether any other reader Avould ever 
 Ihus apply it. 
 
126 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 I had to walk slowly througii the silvery lighted 
 woods; but at last drew near the ringing noise, and 
 climbed the hill, on the top of which were the farm 
 and barnyard of the cows. A road ran along the brow 
 of the hill, and on the other side of it appeared some 
 wide fields. To the left w^as a clump of apple-trees, 
 and the hoarse bark of a dog told me they covered a 
 house. I stopped a few moments to rest and listen, 
 and then stepped cautiously into the road. On the 
 opposite side w^as a large tree, and in its shadow I 
 tried to climb the high rail fence. I was weaker than 
 I had supposed. My limbs refused at first to lift my 
 weight, and my one arm could not keep me from swing- 
 ing round against the fence. Twice I thought I must 
 give it up; but, after several efforts, I mounted it, and 
 then, holding my breath, I let myself drop down on 
 the other side. 
 
 Across the wide field there was another road. I had 
 not gone far when I heard a noise in the woods, and, 
 fearing it might be a picket of the enemy, I lay down 
 beside the fence. The moon was then near the horizon, 
 and I deemed it most prudent to wait till she had set. 
 
 Soon after this I came upon some cows, and these I 
 drove before me. I thought that if there should be a 
 picket in the road the cows would turn off, and there 
 would be less likelihood of my being seen or heard. 
 After going, I should think, a mile, we came to a broad 
 road. This the cows crossed; and I was about to fol- 
 low, when a large dog came from a house beyond, and. 
 
THE ESCAPE 127 
 
 after barking furiously at the cows, came toward me. 
 I took my pistol out and was prepared to fire, when 
 the dog stopped barking. It was well for me he did so, 
 for within a few yards I heard horses coming up the 
 road. I looked, and saw the outline of some horsemen. 
 There was no time to fly. I sank quietly down upon the 
 ground, and lay still. The horsemen came on. They 
 seemed a picket. One rode in front, who seemed a ser- 
 geant, and the others followed. They passed close by 
 me — so close, I could hear the jingling of their spurs. 
 When they had passed I rose, and determined that 
 thereafter I would not go upon any road or cross any 
 field, or spare any pains. I entered the woods. They 
 were now thick with underbrush, and I had not the 
 moon to guide me. Frequently I had wanted the Korth 
 star on night marches, but it had always been hidden 
 by clouds, l^ow, however, on this night, when I needed 
 it above all others, it shone out beautiful and bright. 
 As I watched it it seemed an old friend reappearing to 
 aid me, and again and again as I emerged from some 
 thick underwood, and turned toward its constant blaze, 
 I felt as if it were the companion of my flight. But 
 even with its aid, I encountered difficulties. Some- 
 times the trees would hide it, and often I had to keep 
 my eyes fixed on my path or strained on suspicious 
 objects around me. My plan was to take some distant 
 hill for a landmark, and on reaching it, to look for 
 another, and make toward it. Yet fallen trees and 
 deep hollows often made me change my course, and 
 
128 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 sometimes made me lose it, and then I had to search 
 the sky, and refind the star before I could go on. As 
 I could not use mj hands, I was forced to push my 
 way through the brush with my left shoulder. I had 
 lost my hat, too, in the fall, and my hair often caught 
 in the branches. So my progress was slow and weari- 
 some, with no help around me, but with hope before. 
 
 I should think it was about three o'clock in the morn- 
 ing when, from the top of a little hill, there appeared 
 just before me the smoking, smouldering fires of a 
 camp. I knew if it were a camp, that I was within 
 the lines. I turned, therefore, and made my way back 
 as a burglar might glide through a house — sliding my 
 feet along the ground, lest I should tread upon some 
 crackling branch — choosing the thickest wood and the 
 darkest shade. About an hour later, I saw, as I thought, 
 some tents, but knew it was most improbable there 
 should be any there ; so I stopped to examine, and then 
 saw they were but the grey light of morning breaking 
 through the trees. It was a welcome sight; yet I con- 
 fess the night had not seemed long, and that I was sur- 
 prised to find the morning come. 
 
 I now changed my course, and turned toward the 
 east. The woods changed too. There were small trees, 
 with little underbrush, and the ground was a smooth, 
 descending plain. I kept on over this for miles. The 
 sky brightened; the sun rose, and mounted higher and 
 higher. I heard the barking of dogs, the lowing of 
 cattle, and occasionally the voices of men and children. 
 
THE ESCAPE 
 
 129 
 
 I came, too, upon roads, and these liad to be crossed 
 with great caution, coming out step by step, looking 
 carefully up and down, listening anxiously, and then 
 hurrying across and plunging into the woods on the 
 other side. Whence these roads came or where they 
 went, I neither knew nor cared. I was ignorant of the 
 country, but not compelled to ask my way. For once, 
 I was strangely independent, and needed only to look 
 toward the sun and travel east. 
 
 Later I came upon fields and farms, and round these 
 I had to make long circuits. One chain of farms I 
 thought I never should get through. Again and again 
 I was forced to go back and try again. The tempta- 
 tion to break through my resolution, and cross just this 
 one or that one, was very strong; and I found that 
 making one's escape, like any other success, depends on 
 his resolution and perseverance. 
 
 Toward noon, as I was approaching a road, I heard 
 children's voices. I looked, and saw, or thought I saw, 
 a man on horseback. He sat still as though on guard, 
 and I supposed he was one of the enemy's picket. The 
 woods were thin, so I lay down and drew the bushes 
 over me. I watched him, but he did not move, and I 
 soon decided I must stay there as long as he did. :N"ot- 
 withstanding my anxiety, I fell into a doze, probably 
 not for a minute, yet when I opened my eyes, the man 
 was gone, and a tree stood in his place. It was an 
 optical illusion. My eyes had been overworked for 
 three nights, and for the last twenty hours constantly 
 
130 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 strained in examining objects far and near. The mo- 
 ment's rest had dispelled the apparition. I remem- 
 bered that as the sun was rising that morning, I had 
 long doubted whether a clump of bushes was not a 
 group, of my own men — that trees and stumps had sev- 
 eral times been changed to sentinels and guards; and 
 I remembered, also, the tents in the morning, and the 
 camp-fires during the night. 
 
 I now began to suffer from thirst, for I could only 
 drink by dipping up water with one hand. The sun, 
 too, beat down through the half-leaved trees, and be- 
 came painful. I twisted some leaves into a sort of cap, 
 but it was often brushed off, and at best made but a 
 poor shelter. I had been disappointed also in not meet- 
 ing a contraband. Some I had seen in fields, but al- 
 ways with white men, and them I must shun ; and as I 
 did so, I asked myself whether this was the United 
 States, and these Americans, that I should be thus 
 skulking like a hunted criminal. 
 
 Feeling now and then a little faint, I decided on 
 going to a house for something to eat, and again plung- 
 ing into the woods. Yet here great caution was neces- 
 sary. I wanted a small house, because it would prob- 
 ably contain but one man, and I must have it out of 
 sight of neighbors and near woods. I passed several, 
 but none of them complied with my conditions — one 
 was too large, another too far back in an open field, 
 and a third was overlooked by a fourth. 
 
 It was perhaps three o'clock, and I was growing more 
 
THE ESCAPE 131 
 
 and more faint, when I saw an opening through the 
 trees and the corner of a house. I approached it slowly. 
 There was a field beyond, but no houses in sight, and 
 the woods came up to the yard behind. ^^It is just the 
 house I need," I said to myself, "and now I must risk 
 it and go in.'' I slipped my pistol round, so that I 
 could draw it quickly from under my coat, and pushed 
 open the gate. All was quiet; I walked round to the 
 door, and saw a woman inside, who looked startled at 
 seeing me. She said she would call her husband, who 
 was in the field, and went out. I watched her, and in 
 a few minutes was satisfied by seeing them returning. 
 I went back and narrowly inspected the house. A shot- 
 gun hung over the window, but it was unloaded and 
 rusted. As I finished they came in. He was a young 
 man, with a bright, happy face — far too cheerful a face 
 for a secessionist. We looked at each other, and he 
 said : 
 
 "You are a Union soldier." 
 
 "Yes," I answered; "and what are you?" 
 
 "I am a Union citizen," he replied. 
 
 The word "Union" was something of a talisman ; if 
 he had been a rebel, he would have said Federal. 
 
 James Mills (for such was my new-found friend's 
 name) was the first of several suffering and devoted 
 Union men, who refused all pay and reward for the 
 services they rendered to me, and whose kindness I can- 
 not sufficiently praise. He told me I was in a danger- 
 ous neighborhood, and must neither stay, nor travel by 
 
132 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 the road. His wife hurried for me a dinner, and then 
 he went with me through some fields and woods, and 
 placed me upon a path leading to a second Union man's, 
 named Henry Chunn. It was something like three 
 miles to Mr. Chunn's, but I felt quite fresh and equal 
 to a dozen, if necessary. 
 
 Arriving there, I was most kindly received by his 
 wife. She told me that her husband would cheerfully 
 take me on toward Paducah. She made me lie down; 
 she bathed my shoulder; and she did everything for 
 me that womanly kindness could suggest. This was 
 the first bed I had lain upon for more than three 
 months. It produced an old effect, for in a few mo- 
 ments I was sound asleep. I slept till after dark, and 
 then awoke by hearing the children cry that father had 
 come. He came in, and walking up to me said, in a 
 cordial, honest voice: 
 
 "My friend, I am truly glad to see you; you are 
 truly welcome to my house." 
 
 I went to sleep again and slept till morning. There 
 was bad news then : his mules had disappeared from the 
 barnyard during the night. But I must wait ; his boys 
 would find them by the time we finished breakfast. At 
 breakfast a little circumstance occurred which may give 
 you an idea of the different life we lead on the border. 
 Across some fields, and beyond some woods, we heard 
 a gun. It was no cannon — a mere shotgun, such as a 
 boy might fire anywhere on a spring morning — ^yet we 
 all stopped talking. 
 
THE ESCAPE 133 
 
 "What does that mean?" I asked, after the silence 
 had continued a few moments. 
 "I don't know/' said Mr. Chunn. 
 "Have your neighbors guns and powder ?" 
 
 "No:' 
 
 "Then," said I, "it may mean a great deal for us." 
 We all rose from the table, and looked anxiously 
 across the fields; but nothing was to be seen. The 
 family looked troubled, and Mr. Chunn said something 
 about the mules being gone, and this being strange. 
 We waited some time, but all continued quiet. But 
 the boys had not found the mules, and Mr. Chunn ac- 
 cordingly walked on with me toward the house of Mr. 
 Edward Magness, who was likewise a good Union man, 
 and would willingly help me on. 
 
 I took leave of these kind, simple-minded people, 
 whose plain and honest goodness is rare in the great 
 world, from which they live apart, and went slowly 
 along the little w^ood road. I soon came to a field in 
 which were two or three men and several children, plant- 
 ing corn. I must here explain to you that in the South 
 corn is the one great crop on which everybody lives. 
 The bread is all made of corn; the horses are fed on 
 corn ; the pigs are fattened on corn ; and if the corn 
 should fail there would be a famine. There were fears 
 that it would fail. The spring had been cold and wet, 
 and the planting was not half done, which always had 
 been over a week before. All hands were working early 
 and late on every plantation, seizing on this fine weather 
 
134 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 for hurrying in the corn. As Mr. Magness came down 
 a furrow, near me, I stepped out of the bushes, and told 
 him briefly who I was, and what I wanted. It must 
 have been an unwelcome tale; yet he never, by a look 
 or word, gave a disagreeable sign. Promptly he stopped 
 his plough and unhitched his horses. Unwillingly I 
 saw the planting cease. But when I spoke of it, he 
 said pleasantly they would try and make up the lost 
 time when he came back. We went to his house, the 
 saddles were soon put on, and we started. My com- 
 panion was more than usually intelligent, and gave me 
 much information. He also understood the danger of 
 being seen by secessionists, and picked his way with 
 great care by unused roads. 
 
 A ride of several miles brought us to the house of 
 Mr. Wade. A very shrewd and cautious man was Mr. 
 Wade, yet a staunch Union man who had spoken and 
 suffered for the cause. He had spent the previous eight 
 months chiefly at Paducah, stealing up occasionally in 
 the dark of evening to see his family, and leaving before 
 daylight the next morning. Once he had been arrested, 
 and twice his house had been searched and robbed. He 
 knew well the woods and by-paths, and had tried the 
 difficulties and dangers of escaping from guerrillas. 
 He and I, therefore, had much more in common than 
 the others, and in him I felt I had a trusty and ex- 
 perienced friend ; yet strange to tell, he was — a South 
 Carolinian. 
 
 We went into the house. On a couch lay a very aged 
 
THE ESCAPE 135 
 
 woman, who, I thought, was childish. Mr. Wade and 
 Mr. Magness were old friends, and talked as country 
 neighbors talk, of crops, and roads, and men and places. 
 At last Mr. Magness said: ^^I saw Edward Jones yes- 
 terday, and he told me they had had a letter from Joel, 
 and that he wrote they were leaving Corinth, and had 
 been attacked. His regiment was defeated, and he had 
 to run for his life." 
 
 At this the old lady rose and said: "Say that over, 
 sir." 
 
 Mr. Magness repeated it. 
 
 "He is my own grandson," said the old lady. "The 
 night before he went he came here, and I told him 
 never to fight against his country — the country his 
 forefathers fought for. He said, ^Grandmother, they 
 will call me a coward if I don't go.' A coward! I 
 would let them call me anything, I told him, before 
 I would fight against my country. But he went. And, 
 now, what do you tell me ? He is my ovra. grandson — 
 my own flesh and blood — so I can't wish him killed," 
 said the old lady, with great feeling ; ^'but I thank God 
 — I thank God lie has had to run for his lifeF' 
 
 Our early dinner finished, Mr. Magness took his de- 
 parture, and we started. 
 
 "We will stop at my brother-in-law's. Captain," said 
 Mr. Wade, "and get you a better saddle. It is only a 
 mile from here." So we rode quietly along. 
 
 "We will pass our member of Assembly," said Mr. 
 Wade. "It is about a mile from my brother-in-law's. 
 
136 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 He is a true man, I tell you. The secesh would give 
 anything to get him.'' 
 
 By this time we reached his brother-in-law's. A lit- 
 tle girl was in the yard, and, as we stopped, came to 
 the gate. 
 
 ^'Well, uncle," said the little girl, "are you running 
 away again from the rebel soldiers ?" 
 
 "]^o," said Mr. Wade cheerfully — oh no: there are 
 no rebels round now." 
 
 "Yes, there are," said the girl. "Father has just 
 come from Farmington, and there are four hundred 
 there." 
 
 "What ! four hundred in Farmington !" 
 
 "It is so, brother," said a woman who had come out 
 — "it is so. They came there this morning; and hus- 
 band hurried back to tell the neighbors." 
 
 "Captain," said Mr. Wade, "the sooner you and I 
 get out of this country the better for us." 
 
 "How far is it back to Farmington?" 
 
 "Onlv four miles." 
 
 "Is there any reason for their coming down this 
 road?" 
 
 "Yes ; Hinckley, the member we elected, lives on it, 
 and Jones, who helped elect him, lives on it, and I live 
 on it. They would like to arrest us all. But about 
 half a mile from Hinckley's there is a little side-path 
 we can take for five or six miles." 
 
 Could we have ridden on a gallop, the side-path 
 would have been reached before the threatening danger 
 
THE ESCAPE 137 
 
 could have reached us; but, unfortunately, the pain in 
 my side had increased so that we could not go faster 
 than a walk. I tried a trot for a moment, but could 
 not bear it, and reined up. ^'Do you ride on, Mr. 
 Wade," I said: ^^there is no need of our both being 
 taken.'' But Mr. Wade refused. 
 
 It was an anxious ride. We knew that Farmington 
 was not far behind, and they might come clattering 
 after us at every moment. We looked back often — at 
 every turn of the road — from the top of every knoll 
 and hill, but nothing was seen. 
 
 Soon we came to Hinckley's. Two men were seated 
 on the porch, and the flag w^as flying in front of the 
 house. I rode on; but Mr. Wade stopped, and said, 
 "Pull down your flag, boys, and take to the woods." 
 It was quietly said, but the two men sprang up. I 
 looked back, and saw them exchange a few words with 
 Mr. Wade, and then one pulled down the flag as the 
 other ran toward the stable. There was another anxious 
 interval, and then we reached the side-road. We went 
 past it, so as to leave no trail, and first one and then 
 the other struck off through the woods until we came 
 to it. A very intricate and narrow little road it was; 
 so that the enemy could not have travelled much faster 
 than we. Yet there were some settlers, "but all good 
 Union men," Mr. Wade said. At the first we stopped ; 
 and he borrowed a butternut coat, and, with some dif- 
 ficulty, helped me off with my soldier's blouse, and on 
 with it; so that to any person in a neighboring house 
 
188 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 or field wc must have seemed like two farmers riding 
 along. 
 
 After six or seven miles, our bridle-path came back 
 to the main road. *^' There is a nastj, secesh tavern 
 down the road a mile or so/' said Mr. Wade, "and if 
 they are in this part of the country, they will be sure 
 to go down there for the news and a drink. If we can 
 only get across the road and over to old Washam's, we 
 shall be safe.'' 
 
 Slowly we came out to the road. We stopped and 
 listened — ^we held our breath, and bent down to catch 
 the trampling of their horses. We moved on where the 
 bushes grew thickest, and stopped again. Then Mr. 
 Wade rode out and looked up and down. "There is no 
 one in sight," he said; "come on quickly." I hurried 
 my horse, and in a moment was across. On the other 
 side were great trees and but little underbrush to hide 
 us. We hurried on until we were hidden from the road, 
 and then Mr. Wade drew a long breath, and said: 
 "They won't come down this road; we are safe now." 
 
 The danger past, there came a great increase of pain. 
 Each step of the horse racked me, and I felt myself 
 grow weaker and weaker. At last came the refreshing 
 words: "Old Washam's is the next house," and soon 
 the next house appeared. "A true Union man," said 
 Mr. Wade, and true he seemed, for the flag was dis- 
 played before the door. We stopped, but I was too 
 exhausted to dismount, and had to slide off into Mr. 
 Wade's arms. As I did so, an old lady with silver spec- 
 
THE ESCAPE 139 
 
 taclcs upon her nose and knitting in her hand, came out. 
 ^'What is the matter with that poor man?" she cried; 
 and then catching sight of mj uniform under the but- 
 ternut coat, "Why, it is a Union soldier; bring him 
 into the house — bring him in immediately." So I was 
 brought in and laid upon a bed, and tenderly cared 
 for. 
 
 I lay there watching the knitting and listening to 
 the old lady and her daughter's talk. They had a con- 
 sultation upon my safety, and it was decided that I 
 should go to the daughter's house for the night. "It 
 is off the road," they said, "and if they make an at- 
 tack, we can send you word across the fields." But 
 later we learnt that two spies had passed the house 
 that day, and it was decided I should be sent on that 
 night. 
 
 We were to start from the house of the son-in-law 
 of Mr. Washam's, and he and his brother-in-law were 
 to drive me. I walked up to the house, and found the 
 wagon nearly ready. His wife was a young girl, with 
 a sweet and gentle voice and manner. "It is too bad," 
 she said, "too bad that you should go away so wounded 
 and wearied. In peace we would not let any one leave 
 our home thus." Soon the wagon came to the 
 door. "Mother," she said, "let us make up a bed 
 in it." 
 
 "Oh, no," I interposed, "I am not used to a bed; I 
 have not had one in three months, and cannot put you 
 to such trouble." 
 
140 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 iC 
 
 ^It is no trouble to us/' she replied, so earnestly and 
 kindly, that I could not doubt it; ''do not think that 
 of us." 
 
 ''But," I went on, "I assure you, some hay in the 
 wagon is all I want, and much more than I am accus- 
 tomed to. Besides, I am dusty and dirty, and shall 
 certainly spoil your bedclothes." 
 
 "If it had not been for you Union soldiers fighting 
 for us," she answered, "there would be nothing in this 
 house to spoil ; and whatever we have, you shall have." 
 
 Against such goodness and patriotism, who could 
 raise objections ? The bed was made in the wagon ; 
 they helped me up, and blessed by many good wishes 
 and kind farewells, we started. For me it was so much 
 more safe and comfortable than usual, that I soon fell 
 asleep ; but to my two young friends it was an unusual 
 and an anxious drive. Frequently I was roused by the 
 wagon stopping. Sometimes they heard dogs barking 
 — sometimes voices, and once a gun. At length I woke, 
 to find the wagon standing in front of a house, and 
 young Washam thumping on the door. Soon a man 
 came out. 
 
 "Why, boys," he said, "what on earth are you doing 
 here this time o' night ?" 
 
 "Why you see, Mr. Derringer," said one of the 
 "boys," "here's a wounded Union officer, hurt in the 
 fight on the Obion. Joel Wade brought him to our 
 house, and we've brought him here; and now we want 
 you to take him to Paducah." 
 
THE ESCAPE 141 
 
 <CT\ 
 
 'Tm. really sorry," said Mr. Derringer, "tHat Fve 
 lent my wagon; but my neighbor Purcell is a good 
 Union man, and he will do it. All of you come in, 
 and I will go over and see him." 
 
 I told Mr. Derringer to wait till morning; but he 
 would not hear of it; and after seeing us comfortably 
 in bed, he started o& to walk a mile or two and wake 
 his neighbor in the dead of night, to tell him he must 
 come at break of day and carry on a stranger, of whom 
 he had never even heard, for no other reason than that 
 he was a wounded Union officer. 
 
 Before daylight Mr. Derringer roused us. It was all 
 right, he said; his neighbor Purcell would be there; 
 and now his wife was up, and had breakfast ready. As 
 breakfast finished, Mr. Purcell arrived; I bade my 
 good friends good-by, and started on the last stage of 
 my journey. As we reached the main road, we saw 
 numbers of men mounted on jaded mules, and clad in 
 sombre butternut, with sad and anxious faces. Un- 
 happy refugees flying from the invading foe ! Some 
 who had journeyed through the night, rode with us 
 toward Paducah; others who had reached it the day 
 before, rode anxiously out in quest of news. As many 
 caught sight of me, they recognized the marks of re- 
 cent service. 
 
 "Are you from the Obion?" they asked; "how 
 far off is the enemy now? Will he dare to come 
 here?" 
 
 We drew nearer to the town, and the signs of alarm 
 
142 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 increased. The crowd of refugees grew greater — tlie 
 cavalry patrolled the roads — the infantry was under 
 arms, and the artillery was planted so as to sweep the 
 approaches. At last some houses appeared. 
 
 ^This is Paducah/' said Mr. Purcell ; ''you are there 
 at last." 
 
 We stopped at headquarters, and I went in to report. 
 
 "Is the adjutant in V^ I asked of an officer who was 
 writing. 
 
 ''I am the adjutant, sir," he answered, without look- 
 ing up. 
 
 "I have come to report myself as arriving at this 
 post." 
 
 ''What name, sir?" 
 
 I gave my name. The adjutant looked up, and with 
 some surprise, said: 
 
 "Why, you are reported killed, sir ; two of your men 
 saw you lying dead under your horse !" 
 
 "How many of my men have come in ?" 
 
 "About half; they are at the Provost Marshal's." 
 
 "Any officers ?" 
 
 "Yes; one of your lieutenants was taken, but 
 escaped, and come down from Mayfield by railroad. 
 And now," said the adjutant, "don't stay here any 
 longer; go at once to the hospital, and I will send 
 an order to the medical director to give you a good 
 surgeon." 
 
 A few moments more, and I caught sight of a group 
 of my men. Then came the painful questions: Who 
 
THE ESCAPE 
 
 143 
 
 have come in ? Who are missing ? Who last saw this 
 one ? Who knows anything of that one ? Where does 
 K's family live ? and who will write to tell them how 
 he fell ? And then came a surgeon — a quiet room — a 
 tedious time — an old friend — and a journey home. 
 
X 
 
 THE LAST SCOUT 
 
 FROM 'New York to Fort Henry might once have 
 been an interesting journey, but campaigning has 
 robbed travelling of its charm, and henceforth I fear 
 it will be but dull work for me. The railroad bore me 
 swiftly to the mouth of the Ohio; I have looked again 
 on Cairo in its dirt and mud, Paducah with its dusty 
 streets and hospitals, and now I am on the banks of 
 the Tennessee. 
 
 But I am here only to close my service in the West, 
 and to say good-by to my comrades of the Fifth; to 
 get Gipsy, and to recover my sabre. I have had an 
 interesting soldier-life in Tennessee — more interesting 
 than I shall have again — and I leave it with regret. 
 
 With me so many things have happened here on 
 Sunday, that you must not be surprised that it is Sun- 
 day now. It was on Sunday that Donelson surrendered 
 — on Sunday that I went upon my first foraging — on 
 Sunday that I entered Paris with a flag — on Sunday 
 that we began our first retreat — and it is Sunday now 
 that I am starting on my last scout. 
 
 The party consists of the men of my old squadron, 
 most of whom were with me in the spring. They have 
 not been to the Obion since, and quickly guess that our 
 destination is Lockridge Mill. 
 
THE LAST SCOUT 145 
 
 It is a beautiful October day, and the tall Tennessee 
 corn stands ripe in the fields, though the woods are as 
 green as they were last June. The Muscadine grape is 
 purple, and the persimmon trees are scattered thickly 
 along the road. Yet the frost has not sugared all of 
 the persimmons, and when we taste one which it has 
 not touched, our mouths are drawn up as though we 
 had tasted so much nut-gall. The weather and the 
 woods are all that we can wish, and my life in Ten- 
 nessee will be interesting to its close. 
 
 The road is one that I have not passed over with you, 
 for it would not be safe for us to go by Paris and Como. 
 Too many people would guess our destination if we did, 
 so we reverse the circle, and hope to come back that 
 way. This road will lead us through a bad neighbor- 
 hood, where the guerrillas have many friends. Last 
 week cotton and tobacco were burnt near Boydsville; 
 and we know of large bodies of them up the river, who 
 have succeeded King's cavalry and may swoop dovm. 
 on us at any time. We need, therefore, to use much 
 care and caution, and be always on the watch. For 
 many miles our ride has not been marked by anything 
 unusual; but it is now evening, and we are approach- 
 ing a little hamlet. We reach it — we have seen no one, 
 and no one has seen us ; but every door is closed, and 
 every house is empty. I do not like this. The advance 
 guard has noticed it too, and halted for orders. 
 
 "Push on. Corporal," I say ; "be very watchful ; send 
 two of your men well ahead, and keep on at a trot." 
 
146 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 ^o one is seen, and no sound is heard for some time, 
 and then we meet a man on horseback, who has drawn 
 out to the side of the road for us to pass. A sergeant 
 leaves the column and tells the man that he must come 
 with us; and, much against his will, he does so. But 
 not long afterwards, we halt to feed our horses. 
 
 "Send Corporal Morton and four men back a mile 
 as a picket. Let them take corn with them and feed 
 two of the horses, while the others go farther down the 
 road. Then change and feed the others, and when all 
 are done come in without further orders." 
 
 The advance guard pursue the same plan, and then 
 I turn to the man on horseback. 
 
 "I have been up to the doctor's for medicine for my 
 wife," he says, "and she's expecten of me back. I wish 
 you would let me go, sir." 
 
 "I cannot now," I answer; "but I will try to let you 
 off soon." 
 
 "Couldn't you let me go now, sir ? She's real sick. 
 Here's the medicine, just as I got it from the doctor. 
 You can look at if you want to ; and she'll be scaret 
 bad if I don't come. I'll give you my word not to say 
 anything to anybody, if you don't want me to." 
 
 The man is very earnest; he has the medicine, and 
 he appears very truthful. I am afraid you will think 
 me quite cruel when I answer: 
 
 "I am sorry ; but it's my duty to detain you. You 
 cannot go." 
 
 The man sits down beside the gate, and the sergeant 
 
THE LAST SCOUT 
 
 147 
 
 who has him in charge sits down with him, where, I 
 fear, they do not enjoy themselves. 
 
 The owner of the house stepped out as soon as we 
 arrived, and good-naturedly invited us in ; finding that 
 we wished to feed, he showed the way to the corn-cribs, 
 and dealt out his corn with a free hand. But one object 
 in our halt here is to arrest him. As he returns from 
 the cribs, I tell him I wish to speak to him; and we 
 walk to the house. 
 
 ^^Mr. Bennett," I say, "you are a soldier in the 
 Southern army." 
 
 "1^0, sir. I was, but I've been discharged." 
 
 "Let me see your discharge." 
 
 His wife searches for it in a wardrobe, and in a few 
 minutes brings it to me. It states that he was dis- 
 charged from the service of the Confederate States on 
 account of physical disability. 
 
 "You left, then, because you could not serve any 
 longer." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Had you a pass through our lines?" 
 
 ":N'o, sir." 
 
 "Have you reported to any of our officers, or taken 
 the oath?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Don't you know you are violating military law, and 
 are liable to be arrested?" 
 
 The man says nothing. The three children, who have 
 watched the reading: of the "discharge" as though it 
 
148 SKETCHES OF THE "WAR 
 
 were a safeguard, turn their frightened faces upon me, 
 and his wife moves nearer and says pleadingly: 
 
 "Oh, sir, he is sick. He can't fight any more, and 
 will never go again. He is willing to take the oath, 
 and was going down to take it last week." 
 
 "Why did you not go V 
 
 "I heard there would be an ofiicer up at Boydsville, 
 and that I could take it before him. I acknowledge I 
 ought to have gone down before." 
 
 "Well, you have answered so frankly against your- 
 self that I will take your word for this. Go down to 
 the fort by Thursday, report yourself to the command- 
 ing ofiicer, and take the oath." 
 
 The man promises he will, and his wife thanks me 
 and gives many assurances that she has had enough of 
 the war. We have a little talk about the rebellion, and 
 then I go out. The man whose wife is sick still sits by 
 the gate, and looks up entreatingly as I pass. But the 
 horses have finished their feed, and the rear guard is 
 coming up the road. 
 
 "You may go now, sir," I say to him, "and I regret 
 that you have been stopped; but be careful to tell no 
 one that we are here to-night." 
 
 He promises, mounts his horse, and rides away. I 
 wait until he is out of sight, and then order the men to 
 mount. Mr. Bennett comes up and shakes hands, and 
 I ask him which is the road to Boydsville, and how 
 far it is there. He tells me it is about eight miles, and 
 says; 
 
THE LAST SCOUT 149 
 
 "So joii are going to Boydsville, are you?" 
 
 "Yes," I answer, "we're going that way. Good 
 night." And we move off at a trot, npon the Boydsville 
 road. 
 
 It is three o'clock in the morning, and we are biv- 
 ouacked in a large field far back from any road or 
 house. Last night we soon left the Boydsville road, and 
 then crossed over to a third one, and stopped here about 
 ten. The moon now shines brightly, and all is still as 
 though it were midnight ; but the camp guard is calling 
 up the men^ and we must resume our march. When 
 the sun rises we shall be many miles away. 
 
 As we approach Boydsville, we meet a couple of 
 wagons with boxes and goods. They are stopped, and 
 the usual questions put. "Where are you from?" 
 "Where were these goods bought?" "Have you the 
 Government permits to buy goods ?" The men reply 
 that they have come from Paducah, and produce the 
 bills of goods, all properly stamped by the United 
 States inspector, so we let them pass. 
 
 It is now nearly noon, and we cannot be many miles 
 from Lockridge Mill. Once or twice some man has 
 thought he remembered a house or hill as one he had 
 passed in our retreat; but no one has felt sure of this. 
 At last we come to a cross-road, and four houses which 
 bear the name of Buena Vista ; and as we reach it every 
 man starts and looks about him. There is no mistaking 
 this; we have been here before, and have good cause to 
 remember the place. It was here they fired on us across 
 
150 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 the corner of the field ; here, some of the men turned the 
 wrong way and had to come back ; and here the side of 
 the road was gullied out like the bars of a gridiron, 
 and I wonder more now than I did then that my horse 
 ("ne^er such another") ever crossed it at a gallop as I 
 rode beside the column. 
 
 The squadron halts here ; but I select eight men and 
 keep on. We think that an hour's ride will take us to 
 the spot where my horse fell, and another will bring us 
 back. But retracing a road ridden over in such a man- 
 ner by moonlight, and at another season of the year, is 
 no easy task. Yet here eight heads prove better than 
 one; for, it often happens that out of the eight, there 
 will be only one who noticed a little something, and 
 only another who noticed a little something else. Be- 
 fore long, however, there is another burst of exclama- 
 tions, for another noticeable place appears — a long, 
 straight stretch of road between two wooded knolls, and 
 covered with the stumps of young trees as thickly as 
 though they had been driven down by hand. Well do 
 I remember how, when I caught sight of it, I ordered 
 the men to pull up and cross slowly, and how I turned 
 and watched for the enemy to reach the knoll and open 
 their rifle fire before we should be over. Yet after pass- 
 ing this, the noticeable places are few, and then cease. 
 We turn down this road and that one, and come back, 
 finding nothing that we can remember. If it were not 
 for the sabre, I would give up the search and go back. 
 At last, only one of the party believes the spot we are 
 
THE LAST SCOUT 151 
 
 seeking is still before us, and even his faith in his mem- 
 ory is shaken. We have been two hours instead of one, 
 and have found nothing yet. We have ridden since 
 three this morning, and the day has summer heat. Shall 
 we keep on ? Yes, a little farther. I must find my 
 sabre. But we come to a house hidden beneath a clump 
 of apple-trees, a wide field, a high fence and a large 
 tree. It is my turn to remember now — how inch by 
 inch I toiled up that hill, and how beneath that tree I 
 tried and failed, and failed and tried to climb that 
 towering fence. 
 
 A little farther on a road turns off, and the men are 
 sure that it was this road we took. At the turn (wher- 
 ever it may be), there was on that evening a man with 
 a yoke of oxen, who came near being run down. As 
 we stand discussing the question, a contraband comes up. 
 
 ^^Sam," says one of the men, *^'do you remember the 
 fight on the Obion last spring?" 
 
 ^'Yes, sah," says Sam ; ^^I like to been killed thar." 
 
 ^^You did! how so r 
 
 *^Why, just as the soldiers were a-comen along, I was 
 a-standen right here on this here very corner with our 
 ox-team, and for all the world I thought they'd 'a run 
 over me." 
 
 ^^WHiat ! are you the man with the oxen ?" I exclaim. 
 
 "Yes, sah," says Sam ; "I'm the very man." 
 
 "Then, Sam," I say, "you are the very man we want, 
 and must go along and show us where the soldiers went 
 that night." 
 
152 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 We dismount, and half the men take the horses to 
 the nearest house to feed, and with the others, I walk 
 on. The men say they remember it, but to me it is all 
 a blank. The main events I recollect clearly, but my 
 fall, I find, knocked the last three miles of the ride 
 entirely out of my memory. We go on nearly two miles, 
 and I see nothing that I can recall. Then the road goes 
 down a series of steep descents — so steep I wonder if 
 I ever did ride down them on a runaway horse. As 
 we descend one of these I stop, for before me, as in a 
 dream, stand two trees, and through them I see the 
 fallen trunk and branches of another. I do not expect 
 to see the remains of my horse, for I have already learnt 
 that he staggered bleeding to a house near by, and was 
 seized by the enemy. But this is the spot — I am sure 
 of it. 
 
 ^^I think it was farther on, Captain," says a corporal, 
 "that I saw your horse down — I think it was there, and 
 you must have crawled down to the brook at that place." 
 
 I will try the corporal's place first, and I walk rapidly 
 down there. I reach the bank of the brook, and my heart 
 fails me, for the brook is dry ; its waters cannot hide the 
 sabre now. I look above and below, and there is no 
 sabre to be seen. But this is not the place — there is no 
 log here — I knew it was higher up ; so I jump down into 
 the bed of the stream, and walk eagerly up. Above me 
 is a point, and when I turn that point I am certain I 
 shall see the log — and perhaps the sabre. I reach it, 
 and am pushing through the bushes that overhang the 
 
THE LAST SCOUT 153 
 
 brook, when a sergeant calls out, "Here it is." Yes, 
 there is the log, and beneath it, just as I threw it in, 
 lies the sabre. Rusted and broken and never to be 
 drawn again, it is a thousand times more precious than 
 when, burnished and bright, I first received it. I know 
 it is valueless, and that its beauty and its usefulness are 
 gone, but the happiest moment of my soldier-life is 
 when I find my ruined sabre. 
 
 In the twilight of evening we return to Buena Vista. 
 Very anxious have I been for the last two hours, and 
 very anxious seem the men, as they stand round their 
 saddled horses, at our prolonged absence. I have heard 
 of a party of guerrillas in front and of another on our 
 right, and the men have heard of a third in the rear. 
 Our horses are too tired to march far, and we have al- 
 ready been here too long. The left seems clear, and to 
 the left is Lockridge Mill and our road back— but too 
 many have already guessed that we are going there, and 
 the men have asked too many questions to keep our des- 
 tination a secret, as hitherto it always has been. It is 
 such situations as this that make the cavalry service so 
 interesting; and in its miniature strategy is a constant 
 charm The question, What shall be done ? must be 
 answered quickly, and one needs move skilfully when 
 he is surrounded by difficulties. Here the roads cross 
 somewhat like a letter X. Up the first we marched m 
 the morning, and up the second I have just come; the 
 third leads to Lockridge Mill, and in the fourth we 
 have no real interest. The men mount, wheel into col- 
 
154 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 umn; I order ''trot,'' 'Hrot out," and we move rapidly 
 up the fourth road. No sooner out of sight of the 
 houses at our starting place, than we come down to the 
 slowest of walks. Whenever a house appears, we are 
 seen on a trot ; and whenever the house is passed, we find 
 ourselves on a walk. Thus we appear to be going rap- 
 idly up this road, when we are in fact moving slowly. 
 Some three miles up is a watering place, the only one, 
 and there our thirsty horses must drink. As we pass 
 the last house its pack of dogs bark, and its inmates 
 come out and look at us go by. Then we go down, 
 down, down into a damp, cold, wooded ravine. In its 
 depths we find a muddy stream, and the horses plunge 
 their nostrils deep, and quaff it thirstily. We come out 
 on the other side, and halting, dismount. 
 
 ^N^othing could seem more strange or be more unusual 
 than halting in such a spot, and at such an hour; yet 
 no man asks a question, or appears surprised. Those 
 who have been at the cross-roads all day gather in little 
 groups and talk; and those who have been with me lie 
 down and doze. Wonderful are the effects of discipline 
 and experience ! A year ago how agitated would these 
 same men have been, and how discussed this inexpli- 
 cable delay ! Now they are undisturbed, and leave it 
 all to me. The videttes ride in and whisper reports, 
 and ride out again with whispered instructions; yet 
 this man relights his pipe, and that one goes on with 
 his story. At length the Tennessee bedtime is passed, 
 and the videttes from the front "come in.'' The orders 
 are given, ''Be silent" ; "Hold your sabres so that they 
 
THE LAST SCOtJT 155 
 
 will not clank"; ^'By file to the right''; and we are 
 retracing our steps to Buena Vista. Riding by file 
 makes a less intense noise, though the column is 
 stretched out to twice its usual length, and the noise 
 lasts twice as long. We mount the hill noiselessly, and 
 I look with anxiety at the house. Do I see a light ^ 
 Ko, 'tis but the moon glimmering on the window panes. 
 We approach it — the dogs are as silent as the men. I 
 am before it, and check Ida to her slowest walk — the 
 column behind me hardly moves, and the horses seem 
 to tread lightly. We are past, and no cur has yelped or 
 person seen us — our first strategic movement is success- 
 ful. ''It was done first rate," whispers the sergeant 
 behind me ; ''we got ahead of the dogs that time." 
 
 On our left there is a corn field, with the tall Southern 
 corn still standing. We halt, and two men dismount, 
 and in the shadow of a tree take down the high rail 
 fence. The column, turning in, passes up a corn row to 
 the other side of the field ; the two men, remaining, 
 carefully replace the fence. The shadow of the tree 
 hides our trail, and we have left no other sign behind 
 us. On the other side of the field is a little basin, 
 unploughed and grass-covered, wherein our horses are 
 picketed. As I ride around it I find they are com- 
 pletely hidden away ; it is perfect for our purpose. The 
 sentinels stand on the rising ground behind us, and in 
 the clear moonlight, see over a wide expanse of fields ; 
 and here we lie do^vn and securely sleep. 
 
 It is three in the morning, and the men have left 
 
156 SKETCHES OF THE WAE 
 
 their cavalry coiiclies, and are silently rolling their 
 blankets and saddling their horses. We leave the field 
 as we entered it, replacing the fence and turning toward 
 Buena Vista. How surprised the owner will be when, 
 harvesting his corn, he stumbles on the traces of our 
 mysterious bivouac. The country still sleeps in the 
 chill silent moonlight, and very chilly and silent are 
 we ; but by and by the day breaks, and as the sun rises 
 we descend into the dark, damp valley of the Obion. 
 The direction of our march is reversed — so is the hour, 
 and so are all the circumstances, yet we feel awed by 
 the memories of last May. Every fallen tree or muddy 
 hollow has a tale — here this man's horse was shot, here 
 another was wounded, and here a third narrowly es- 
 caped. On the bank of this little stream the man who 
 leads was taken prisoner; over it Tennessee made an 
 unequalled jump; in this mud hole five horses went 
 down, and further on, near the bridge, our major fell. 
 Looking at it calmly and critically, it seems even 
 worse than it did then, and I wonder how one of us 
 escaped. 
 
 We reach the bridge ; the thickened foliage leaves the 
 valley less open, yet I can, in fancy, see again that long 
 column bearing down upon us. What a strong position 
 it is ! how easily we could have held it, had we been 
 armed like the enemy! And here are the house and 
 the barn-yard, and Bischoff shows us the very place 
 where the little black horse made his famous leap ; and 
 Mr. Lockridge comes out and points to some graves, and 
 
THE LAST SCOUT 157 
 
 his wife repeats some dying words. They beg "us to 
 stay to breakfast, and say that though they suffered last 
 spring, they have been blessed with an abundant har- 
 vest; but we do not feel like breakfasting there now, 
 and pass on to the houses where the flags were waved, 
 and where the welcome is worthy of the flag. 
 
 A long day has this been for us — sultry and hot — the 
 streams dried up — the wells a hundred feet deep — and 
 our horses have suffered much. We are still seven miles 
 from Como, when two mounted men are seen behind us. 
 "Bring those men in. Sergeant." The sergeant wheels 
 about and soon returns with them. 
 
 "I must trouble you to ride with us awhile, gentle- 
 men," I say; "I wish to talk with you." 
 
 '^We are going to Cottage Grove," says one of the 
 men ; '^it is seven miles off, and we have ridden a long 
 distance to-day : I hope you won't take us far." 
 
 "I wdll see about it," I say ; and we ride on. 
 
 One — two — three miles ; it is no joke to the men, they 
 plead their loyalty, and give their names and proffer 
 their honor. The answer they get is, "I am sorry for 
 you — I know it's hard ; but I cannot let you go." 
 
 "We've been up to old man Gibbs', near Dresden." 
 
 "A tall dark man, who sometimes rides a white 
 mule ?" 
 
 "]^o, that's his son. E'ow you know the kind of folks 
 we've been among, maybe you'll let us go." 
 
 "I am sorry for you — I know it's hard ; but I cannot 
 let you go." 
 
158 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 jTour — five — six miles, and they ask: 
 "Do YOU mean to take us to Como ?" 
 
 "Yes}' 
 
 "When we get there, will you let us go 1" 
 
 "No." , 
 
 "It's further from Como than from here; our horses 
 are tired, and our folks will be frightened." 
 
 "I am sorry for you— I know it is hard ; but I cannot 
 
 let you go." „ 
 
 "Mr. Hurt knows us, and will vouch for us. 
 
 "Well, I will see Mr. Hurt." 
 
 Como is reached at last. Our secession friend's barn- 
 yards are still standing, and half the men halt there; 
 this time to trouble him for supper as well as forage 
 With the rest I continue down the road that I walked 
 up so anxiously when I was last here. I dismount and 
 walk to the steps, where stands Mrs. Hurt. We come 
 from a guerrilla country, and in the twilight she does 
 not recognize me. I can see in her frightened look and 
 agitated manner that she thinks we are some of her 
 Southern brethren. I therefore hasten to announce my- 
 self by saying, "How are you, Mrs. Hurt? I have 
 come back for that tea you were getting for me last 
 sprino' " A very joyful meeting it is; and Mr. Hurt is 
 called, and we shake hands as though we had been life- 
 long friends, and say to each other that we can hard y 
 believe our acquaintance was but of the part of a smgle 
 day. Trouble and danger bring people very quickly 
 close together. . . 
 
THE LAST SCOUT 159 
 
 But the two men all this while have been sitting 
 on their horses at the gate, and now they cough 
 loudly. 
 
 ^'Come here/' I say to Mr. Hurt, "and tell me if you 
 know these men, and if they are trustworthy. '^ 
 
 We walk to the gate, and Mr. Hurt bursts into a loud 
 laugh. "Why," he says, "you have arrested the only 
 two Union men there are in Cottage Grove !" 
 
 I am vexed, but I cannot help laughing ; and the men 
 are vexed, but they, after a minute, laugh too. 
 
 "Don't tell it up there," says Mr. Hurt, "or the secesh 
 will laugh at you all your lives;" and then we shake 
 hands, and they ride away. 
 
 I need not tell you that this time we stayed to tea ; 
 nor how we talked over the events of the former visit; 
 and how everybody remembered where everybody sat 
 and what everybody did, and every word that everybody 
 said. But it is time to go, and though Mr. Hurt will 
 not hear of it, we saddle up, and bidding them many 
 good-bys, resume our march. 
 
 Last spring when we crossed the Tennessee, two men, 
 named Anderson and Faris, came into camp as refugees 
 from Paris. When I was in Paris with the flag, some 
 one came behind me and said, in a whisper, "Tell 
 Anderson and Faris not to come back !" As we guarded 
 the Holly Fork next day, Anderson and Faris appeared. 
 I stopped them, not on their account, but for the reason 
 that I would not let anybody pass; and afterward they 
 came down and stayed chiefly in camp. On our expe- 
 
160 SKETCHES OF TPIE WAR 
 
 dition to the Obion Faris had been our guide. He was 
 taken, a court-martial was held at which a neighbor of 
 his — one Captain Mitchell — was the chief manager and 
 witness; and Faris was sentenced as a spy, and hung. 
 He met his death bravely, writing a calm and heroic 
 letter to his wife upon his coffin. 
 
 We have all wanted to catch Master Mitchell; and 
 now, on our way from Mr. Hurt's, I accidentally learn 
 that last evening he came into Paris. We have been 
 on the road since three this morning, and it is eleven 
 now; but this opportunity shall not be lost, though he 
 is a cunning fellow, who probably will not stay two 
 nights in the same place. And now we halt at the house 
 of an old Unionist, who bears a striking resemblance to 
 General Scott, and whose fine old house is surrounded 
 and overshadowed by a noble grove, equal to our Battery 
 in its better days. 
 
 "'Call me at half-past one," I say to the corporal of 
 the guard; "and relieve guard in an hour." 
 
 "Half-past one. Captain," says the corporal. 
 
 "Call up the men." 
 
 The men turn out promptly after their two hours' 
 sleep. 
 
 "The moon seems pretty much in the same place," 
 says one. 
 
 "]^o wonder," answers another, "it's only half-past 
 one." 
 
 Nothing more is said, and no surprise expressed. If 
 you could hear them, you would think that going to 
 
THE LAST SCOUT 161 
 
 bed at eleven and rising at half-past one is their usual 
 course. 
 
 We pass quietly out of the beautiful grove, and wend 
 our way toward Paris. Paris is not altogether safe; 
 Captain Mitchell's visit may have been the forerunner 
 of a guerrilla raid. At three in the morning we have 
 passed Mrs. Ayres', and are on the outskirts of the 
 town. The men are informed of the object of the move- 
 ment, and are burning with the desire of taking him. 
 There is no need of the order, ^^If he attempts to escape, 
 shoot him, cut him down, give him no quarter." Those 
 who know the house form a party to surround it, and the 
 rest a reserve to look at the court-house square and see 
 if there be any guerrillas there. We descend to the 
 little stream that bounds Paris ; we climb the hill, and 
 enter its empty streets. The men are riding by file, and 
 intent as I am on my object, I am struck with the 
 strange, spectral appearance of this long line of horse- 
 men slowly winding through the silent town. 
 
 We approach the house, and the sergeant who has 
 charge of the party dismounts half his men ; they fasten 
 their horses, and climb the fence. There is an instant's 
 exciting pause, and then the men on foot rush to the 
 back of the house, while the others gallop to the front ; 
 the house is surrounded. I dismount and enter the 
 gate, and as I do so the front door opens, and a woman 
 and two or three girls come out. 
 
 "Is Captain Mitchell in this house?" I say to the 
 woman, whom I naturally take to be his wife. 
 
162 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 "[N"©, sir." 
 
 ^'When did he leave it ?" 
 
 ^'I don't know, sir.'' 
 
 ''Is this Mrs. Mitchell ?" 
 
 ''No, sir. My name is Mrs. . I don't live here." 
 
 He has either escaped, I think, or is still in the house, 
 and this party has been sitting up with him; so I say, 
 somewhat sarcastically : 
 
 "Are you ladies in the habit of being up till three 
 
 in the morning ?" 
 
 "]^o, sir. To-night we are sitting up with a sick 
 
 person." 
 
 "How sick ?" I say, not half believing the reply. 
 
 There is a young girl of fifteen standing beside the 
 woman, who has earnestly watched me, and she answers 
 my question: 
 
 "She is my sister," she says in a trembling voice— 
 "she is my sister, and she is dying." 
 
 "It is so," says the woman. "The doctor says she is 
 in the last stages of diphtheria, and can live but a few 
 hours. Captain Mitchell came back because he heard 
 she was dying. If you don't believe me, you can come 
 in and look for yourself." 
 
 "E^o," I answer, "if this family is in such affliction, 
 we will be the last persons to intrude. I will withdraw 
 the most of my men; and you, my girl, may go back to 
 your sister, and feel assured that no one shall disturb 
 you during the remainder of the night." 
 
 They seem surprised, and, thanking me, go in. I post 
 
THE LAST SCOUT 163 
 
 a man at each corner of the house, and the others go 
 back to bivouac in the court-house square. I am much 
 perplexed what to do. It shall not be said that we 
 searched a house while a girl was dying, and yet it may 
 be a trick, and he within. Walking up and do\\Ti upon 
 the court-house steps, I think the matter over, and de- 
 termine on this course: There is a physician attending 
 this girl, and there is another here in whom I can 
 implicitly trust. At sunrise I have routed these two 
 gentlemen out, and marched them down to the house. I 
 then send for Mrs. Mitchell. She comes out, pale from 
 night-watching, and looks with no friendly eye on the 
 pursuers of her husband and the disturbers of her 
 child. 
 
 ^^Captain Mitchell is not here," she says calmly. ^^He 
 took leave of his daughter, and went away yesterday. 
 She has only an hour or two to live." 
 
 ^^I don't dispute your word, Mrs. Mitchell ; I feel for 
 you in your affliction, and know how harsh and unkind 
 my actions must seem; but it is my duty to search this 
 house. Yet I will do all I can for you. I will keep my 
 guards on the outside; or I will let Dr. Matheson go 
 with your physician, and if they report to me that your 
 daughter is as ill as you say, then I will let them make 
 the search." 
 
 "I don't object to this, sir; it will not frighten my 
 daughter." 
 
 The two doctors go in, and Mrs. Mitchell continues 
 standing beside me on the piazza. 
 
164 SKETCHES OF THE WAR 
 
 "You have a hard lot/' I say; "your husband away 
 at such a time — near you, and yet unable to return." 
 
 "Yes, a very hard lot," she answers with a sigh. 
 
 The two doctors come out, and Dr. Matheson says : 
 
 "She is nearly gone; it is diphtheria — the last stage." 
 
 "Then search the house, gentlemen, thoroughly, from 
 top to bottom, in every room and closet ; examine every 
 bed and corner." 
 
 They come out again, and report that he is not in the 
 house. The guards return their sabres and march 
 away ; and Mrs. Mitchell, to my surprise, holds out her 
 hand and says, "I don't blame you, sir, for what you've 
 done ; I wish all others had treated us as kindly." 
 
 Much as I desired to arrest him, I confess that I am 
 greatly relieved. Arresting a father at the bedside of 
 his dying daughter would mar the pleasant memories 
 of my last scout in Tennessee. 
 
 I am gliding down the beautiful river, its crystal 
 waters sparkle in the sun ; and Fort Henry is lessening 
 on my sight ; the tall hills opposite sink down, the flag- 
 staff and the waving flag alone are left. !N^ow, farewell, 
 Tennessee ! 
 
APPENDIX I 
 
 The following interesting letter, taken from a lead- 
 ing 'New York newspaper, is now added to the new 
 edition of this work. It forms so unusual a testimonial 
 from a military officer, and also from the Union men 
 of the South, of the truthfulness and value of the book, 
 both as a sketch of war scenes drawn from a military 
 point of view, and as a reliable account of the Union 
 sentiment whi chsecretly prevailed at the South, that 
 we have deemed it a desirable appendix. 
 
 AN INTERESTING INCIDENT. 
 Editor of the . 
 
 The xe-publication of Judge Nott's Sketches of the 
 War, recalls an incident, connected with one of those un- 
 faltering Unionists of Tennessee, which I trust will prove 
 interesting to your loyal readers. 
 
 In the month of October, 1863, when on a scouting expedi- 
 tion after Faulkner, which left Union City under the com- 
 mand of the celebrated Captain Frank Moore, of the Sec- 
 ond Illinois Cavalry, we passed through Como. It was af- 
 ter noon, and I, with my two companies of the Fourth Mis- 
 souri Cavalry, was ordered to "turn in" and feed, at a house 
 about a quarter of a mile out of town, where there seemed 
 to be plenty of forage and "shoats." After seeing my com- 
 mand properly disposed, I stationed a guard at the house 
 
166 
 
 APPENDIX I 
 
 and entered the gate. The lady of the house met me on 
 the porch and invited me in. I observed to her, after enter- 
 ing, that I was obliged to stop to feed my command, as 
 they were very tired and hungry, and asked if she could pre- 
 pare a meal for some half dozen officers. She assented, 
 and immediately went to the kitchen to give the necessary 
 directions. When she returned, I inquired : 
 
 "Is your husband at home ?" 
 
 "No, sir. He is absent, looking for his stock." 
 
 I was then convinced of what I expected at first, from 
 her frightened looks and distant manner, that her husband 
 was in the rebel army. 
 
 "What," I ventured to ask, "is your husband's name?" 
 
 "Hurt, sir." 
 
 " Hurt, Hurt," I repeated after her. " That name sounds 
 familiar. I have seen or heard it somewhere. Ah ! now I 
 remember. It was in a little work written by Captain Nott, 
 called Sketches of the War." 
 
 " Indeed !" she exclaimed. " Did you know him ?" 
 
 " Very well. I was his Second Lieutenant in the Fourth 
 Missouri Cavalry, my present regiment. We left New York 
 for St. Louis, and entered this regiment together, in August, 
 1861. Unfortunately, however, we were soon separated; 
 for Captain Nott and his company were transferred to the 
 Fifth Iowa Cavalry, and I have not seen him since. It was 
 a bitter disappointment to me, and I have never fairly got 
 over it." 
 
 "Then you are really Union soldiers ? I'm sure you are." 
 
 " How could you doubt it ?" I asked. " You see we wear 
 the United States uniform." 
 
 " That is not always conclusive. Captain. It was only 
 the other day that a force of rebel cavalry, disguised in blue 
 
APPENDIX I 167 
 
 coats, surprised and routed a detachment of the Seventh 
 Tennessee Cavalry, in this very place. I never heard such 
 horrid yelling in my life. They acted like demons. Since 
 then we are obliged to be very cautious." 
 
 Here Mrs. Hurt excused herself, and, stepping to the 
 door, directed Tom to call his master. Eeturning, she con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "I must apologize. Captain, for deceiving you as to my 
 husband's whereabouts. You see the difficulties of our sit- 
 uation. He will be here presently. His stock usually stray 
 no farther than the nearest corn-field." 
 
 Smiling at her explanation of what at first looked to me 
 very much like a white lie, I observed that I fully appre- 
 ciated the dangers attending life in a country raided over 
 alternately by each of two hostile parties; and that I well 
 understood why, at first, I believed myself in a "secesh" 
 house. 
 
 "I presume," I continued, "you have not seen Captain 
 Nott's little book, describing his visit here, and his adven- 
 tures in these parts?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. And what is more, it is in a safe place. We 
 hide it away, for fear it might get soiled." 
 
 She undoubtedly knew it would not be quite safe to let 
 the "Johnnies" find it. 
 
 Mr. Hurt now appeared, just as we were sitting down to 
 dinner. Several of my officers had come in. 
 
 " Husband, these are the friends of Captain iSTott. I 
 have explained your absence." 
 
 " I am delighted to see you, gentlemen ; tell me all about 
 the Captain. We have entirely lost track of him." 
 
 " The last news we had of him, he was a prisoner at 
 Camp Ford, Texas. He was Colonel of the 176th New 
 
168 APPENDIX I 
 
 York infantry. There is a rumor that he died in prison, 
 but we do not credit it." 
 
 "I hope it is only a rumor. I never met a man in my 
 whole life for whom I formed so strong an attachment. 
 And if ever I find out where he is, I will visit him, if it 
 takes me to China. I never saw an officer who had such re- 
 markable control over his men. At the same time they 
 seemed to idolize him.'^ 
 
 We continued to chat till dinner was over, when Mrs. 
 Hurt produced a copy of Sketches^ which had been sent by 
 the author. "Nothing," she said, "would induce us to 
 part with it." 
 
 The enlarged edition of this charming little work has just 
 been issued from the press. Judged by its predecessor, 
 which has long since been exhausted, I have no doubt but 
 this edition will meet a cordial welcome wherever real merit 
 is recognized and rewarded. To facilitate in some degree 
 its circulation, I desire to say something in its behalf: in 
 the first place because of my attachment to the author, un- 
 der whom I entered the service ; in the second place because 
 the work is a very deserving one. 
 
 Compiled from a series of letters originally written to 
 the pupils of Ward School 44, of this city, of which the 
 author was formerly a trustee, it might be inferred that 
 the style and subject-matter would be exclusively adapted 
 to the tastes and comprehension of children. The fact is 
 otherwise. The author, as he states in the preface, has 
 " carefully avoided that ^ baby talk ^ and paltriness of sub- 
 ject," so common in works for juveniles, and has given 
 "just such incidents and topics, as he would have chosen 
 for their fathers and mothers." To the generality of adult 
 
APPENDIX I 169 
 
 readers, I venture the assertion, few works of romance will 
 be found more absorbingly interesting. For myself, I 
 freely say, that not only was I intensely interested, but, 
 accustomed as I was to all the details of cavalry service, I 
 learned much from this little volume which could not be 
 found in "Tactics" or "Regulations." It is an excellent 
 work for officers to read, both for amusement and infor- 
 mation. 
 
 Besides the exceeding attractiveness of the story, the 
 scholar is fascinated by the dignity and purity of the com- 
 position — the simplicity of the style, and the surpassing 
 clearness, naturalness and minuteness, which mark the 
 book throughout. Nothing seems to have escaped the ob- 
 servation of the author; and whatever he observed, he re- 
 membered. The smallest details are garnered, and made 
 to contribute to the interest of the narrative. One of the 
 prominent features of the work is, that most of the inci- 
 dents, thrilling in themselves, are put in the colloquial form, 
 thus giving them a directness and vivacity which is lost in 
 the third-person style. But, perhaps, the distinguishing 
 charm lies in the fact that the author has stamped himself 
 upon his work. Every page illustrates the nobleness and 
 real goodness of heart, which ever characterized his actions. 
 
 Oscar P. Howe, 
 
 Captain Fourth Missouri Cavalry. 
 
APPENDIX II 
 THE GOBLIN HORSE: A STORY OF CAMP BENTON 
 
 Horses are like babies — chiefly interesting to their 
 owners. Occasionally they emerge from the enclosure 
 of home life, and become interesting to other people. 
 One in a billion may find his way into print. But most 
 rare are the horses whose characters are worthy of 
 record. The one of which I write comes a step nearer 
 to humanity in this, that a shadow of mystery falls upon 
 his life and end. 
 
 He belonged to the Fremont Hussars; but how he 
 came into the regiment, no man could tell. It was in 
 September, 1861, and the regiment, not yet completed, 
 was in camp near St. Louis. Newly built sheds for 
 horses and newly pitched tents for men lay in parallel 
 lines, and around the encampment ran the high fence 
 of the ^^Abbey Race Track." In this, the first flush of 
 war, recruits poured in, a daily stream; and another 
 stream, the troopers' horses, came flowing from the Gov- 
 
 NoTE. — The story here printed is not fiction, although, as the reader will 
 perceive, it is as improbable a story of a horse as was ever written. All of 
 the facts actually occurred; the most improbable event in the narrative 
 was duly substantiated by legal evidence at the time, and this evidence has 
 been submitted to the editor. The author is one of the seniors of onr 
 Federal judges; the commanding cfificer of the regiment first referred to 
 was Colonel George E. Waring, Jr., the well-known sanitary engineer; 
 and another witness of the incidents narrated was Colonel James F. Dwight, 
 recently one of the assignees in bankruptcy and a well-known member of 
 the New York Bar. This chapter did not appear in the original edition of 
 the book, but was published in Scribner's Magasine, March, 1893, and is 
 here used by permission of the publishers. The sequel to it was furnished 
 by Colonel Nott to the publisher for the present edition. 
 
APPENDIX II I'l 
 
 ernment corrals. These two streams, however, did not 
 flow in evenly together ; sometimes the men were in ex- 
 cess, sometimes the horses. But whenever there was 
 a surplus of the latter, although the niass would remain 
 the same, there would be a strange disintegration of the 
 particles. Sixty horses the officer in charge would leave 
 under guard at nightfall, and sixty horses would be 
 found under guard at daybreak; yet how changed! So 
 many sick! so many lame! such a noticeable decrease 
 in size and spirit ! For the Fremont Hussars consisted 
 largely of German veterans who knew a thing or two 
 of soldiering and horses, and who held that the best of 
 troopers would be useless to the cause of freedom unless 
 he were well mounted. Wherefore, as the "reserved 
 mounts" grew nightly worse, the six mounted companies 
 appeared daily better. Such fine horses they rode ; al 
 so healthv and sound. "Vhy are our horses so goot 
 Vhy, pecause ve take so goot care of tem." One could 
 not help liking these kind-hearted Dutchmen. 
 
 But when the seventh company came to be mounted 
 out of the "reserve mounts," then there was awfiil 
 swearing to be heard in the land. And then the men al- 
 readv mounted, like disinterested patriots seeking to 
 throw oil on the troubled waters, would address the to- 
 be-mounted in calm and soothing words which pointed 
 toward future arrivals of horses for future recniits, and 
 intimated that at such fortunate epochs it could be made 
 "all richt " Whereupon, the exasperated, with glances 
 thro^vn toward the distant Government corral, and an 
 
172 
 
 APPENDIX II 
 
 ominous Germanic jerk of the head expressive of much 
 inward resolve, would say to all concerned, "]N^ever 
 mindt, never mindt/' 
 
 In this state of equine affairs, a newly mustered cap- 
 tain of the regiment awaiting the arrival of his own 
 private horses, and needing a temporary mount, looked 
 despondingly through the reserve, and found no horse 
 which it would become ^^an officer and gentleman" to 
 ride. As he stood negotiating the purchase of a cheap 
 animal from a brother officer, a sergeant came up, and 
 said that there was a well-appearing horse in the ninth 
 shed, a horse that no one seemed to own. The party 
 walked around to the shed, and at one end of it, with 
 three or four of the rejected "rats" of the regiment, 
 found a large chestnut sorrel, in appearance much above 
 the average of troopers^ horses. How so good-looking an 
 animal came to be standing there, instead of in some 
 of the six companies' stables, was the first question. 
 The sergeant had observed him standing there for three 
 days past ; one man believed he had been rejected by a 
 Prussian veteran as too rough a trotter; another that 
 he had thrown his rider; but no one really knew any- 
 thing about him. The inspecting officers of the regi- 
 ment chanced to be lounging near, and they averred that 
 they had never inspected the horse. But he bore the 
 regimental brand and stood in the regimental stables. 
 
 As the party approached the horse the captain 
 was struck with his breadth of forehead and dark, 
 sinister eye. The sergeant also noticed the latter. 
 
APPENDIX II 17 
 
 o 
 
 for he immediately said, ^'That's a wicked eye he has." 
 The horse quickly turned his head toward the sergeant 
 and looked at him steadily with a mild, contemplative 
 expression; the remainder of the party said they saw 
 nothing wicked about him. As they waited for a sad- 
 dle to be brought, the horse yawned, stretching his deep 
 mouth wide, and disclosing a tongue that had been half 
 cut off, i.e., about midway in the tongue were the re- 
 mains of a deep gash which had nearly severed it in 
 two, and now left the lower half of a peninsula con- 
 nected only by a narrow isthmus with the main conti- 
 nent. 
 
 The saddle came and an Austrian officer mounted. 
 He was a noble of the ^'blue blood," on leave of absence, 
 and a captain of the Hussars. He rode with the stiff, 
 straight leg of a Continental cavalry officer, erect and 
 commanding above the saddle ; awkward and unbecom- 
 ing below — an unyielding seat, exacting and wearisome 
 to man and beast. But like all of the Prussian and 
 Austrian officers, he understood his business thoroughly, 
 and when a trooper could not manage his horse on 
 drill, it was his way to order the man to dismount and 
 ride the refractory animal for him. Under his easy 
 hand, the horse he was now trying appeared much bet- 
 ter than when in the stable, moving off in a free, bold 
 trot, with head and ears erect, like those hunters which 
 English painters love to sketch trotting to the "meet," 
 the red coat bending forward and rising in the stirrups 
 with every stride. His trot was, indeed, a trifle too 
 
174 APPEITDIX II 
 
 high and rough for a McClellan saddle and a ^^hard- 
 riding" seat; but nothing to reject a good horse for; 
 and there was a superior gallop with long and steady 
 stride and hoof-beats falling regular as clock-work. 
 There was no shying, starting, or stumbling; he was 
 neither restive nor lazy; he moved quietly and freely; 
 he was just the horse that an officer would choose for 
 the daily drill; and the only objection that appeared 
 was that he was not an easy horse "to ride hard.'' 
 
 "To ride hard" doubtless means to many an Ameri- 
 can, to ride furiously. In fact, it is the distinguishing 
 term between the rising and falling, easy seat of the 
 English gentleman, and the fixed, immovable seat of the 
 English officer. When the Duke of Wellington was 
 asked : "How long is a man fit to be a general ?" he 
 answered: "As long as he is able to see to everything 
 himself and ride hard." In this topsy-turvy world of 
 ours, there is a wonderful compliance of things to their 
 conditions. All men have "builded better than they 
 knew," if they have but built at all. It may be laid 
 down as a general law of transportation, that whenever 
 good carriage-ways are built the horseman dismounts. 
 He mounts again for parade or pleasure, for exercise 
 or excitement; but his transportation business he ever- 
 more will do on wheels. The English are an exception 
 to the rule. They travel in the saddle, they ride to 
 market, to Parliament, to their counting-houses, to their 
 hunting meets. They ride twenty miles to lunch, and 
 twenty back to dinner ; and they ride upon hard high- 
 
APPENDIX II 175 
 
 ways and smooth macadam roads. Generations of ex- 
 perience have taught them that the steady trot and shift- 
 ing seat are the movements of the united horse and man, 
 which yield to both, upon solid stone roads, the largest 
 amount of ease with the least degree of strain. The 
 trooper with his sabre, and the cowboy with his lasso, 
 cannot surrender the free activity of body and arm. 
 They must always be in the saddle. In the deep prai- 
 rie grass the trotter loses his feet, and the cowboy rides 
 upon an easy lope. The trooper must ride at all gaits, 
 and hence he must "ride hard.'' 
 
 The Austrian dismounted and spoke well of the 
 horse. So did the small crowd of horse-critics, oflScers 
 and men, that gathered round him. For your horse is 
 a leveller in society; and in the stable gentlemen and 
 jockey grow familiar, without contempt, in a common 
 enthusiasm; and in the cavalry camp, officers and men 
 mingle around the leveller, whose best judge, for the 
 time, is the best man — the authority of highest rank. 
 So this horse, which had been dozing for days amid six 
 hundred sharp-eyed horsemen — each in want of a better 
 horse than he had — seemed suddenly to awake and 
 arouse the interest of all who saw him. 
 
 The horse had not been bitted; he was not "bridle- 
 wise," and knew but one meaning in his rider's spur. 
 And there was no time to train him, for the "Depart- 
 ment of the West" was a beehive then, without drones. 
 The untaught officers from civil life's quiet ignorance 
 had not time to train themselves. There was drilling 
 
176 APPENDIX II 
 
 of men, inspection of horses, beseeching ordnance offi- 
 cers for arms, imploring quarter-masters for clothing. 
 Matchless was the zeal and the industry that reigned in 
 every camp during ^'Fremont's hundred days." Yet in 
 the turmoil of the time, this horse seemed to learn by 
 looking on, and, at the end of a week, to know every- 
 thing. The slightest touch of the rein upon his neck, 
 the mere motion of the rider's hand, the gentlest pres- 
 sure of the leg, would wheel him without the use of bit 
 or bridle. So imperceptible were the means employed, 
 that some who watched him thought that he understood 
 the commands, and made his ^^right wheel" or ^^left 
 turn" at the mere word. 
 
 It was observed that this horse seemed to delight in 
 drilling — in drilling, not being drilled. It was as the 
 captain's horse, out of the ranks and viewing the un- 
 happy condition of his kind, that he was happy. For, 
 as the ^^coach" of a boat's crew is properly on the outside 
 of the boat, so the instructor of cavalry is always on 
 the outside of his squad. He moves but little, and the 
 men in their evolutions revolve around him. Occa- 
 sionally he changes his position, but then halts to com- 
 mand, and explain, and criticise. Wlien the captain 
 thus halted, and the reins were dropped, and the new 
 horses in the ranks were crowding and kicking, and 
 fretting, and sweating, then would this one's sinister 
 eye glow with Satanic joy. When the squadron passed 
 before him on the gallop, and dull horses were being 
 pricked up by spurs, and fiery colts wrenched back by 
 
ArPENDiX II 
 
 177 
 
 curbs then would he stand placid as the Indian sum- 
 mer sky, and plant his fore-feet well in front and stretch 
 his legs, and body, and long neck, and deep jaws, with 
 exquisite enjoyment. If it were regimental drill, and 
 he was denied the sweets of contemplation, then would 
 he take his place in front of the line or beside the col- 
 umn, and move with the regularity of a machine, in- 
 different to the existence of all other horses. He never 
 became excited ; he never showed the ineradicable desire 
 of his kind to race ; he led down deep descents with no 
 increase of speed, and up sharp acclivities without 
 ''losino; distance" ; he did not swerve a hair's breadth 
 for a huge heap of broken stones, but mounted and trav- 
 ersed it at his measured trot. But when the hours of 
 drill were over, and sounding bugles, and shouting drill- 
 officers, and charging squadrons were gone, and the 
 prairie was deserted and still, and any other horse 
 would look toward the stable and seek to follow his 
 mates, then a wild excitement would sometimes fall 
 upon this one, and he would rear, and plunge, and kick, 
 and gallop around and around like an escaping colt. 
 
 The horse was not long in acquiring a name. At 
 first, he was known as ^'The Drill Sergeant," but there 
 was soon a new development of character in which, as 
 has been the case with many notable characters, he suc- 
 ceeded in making a name for himself. The afternoon 
 drill was over, the October sun was sinking through the 
 golden haze, and the captain, with his friend D., was 
 sauntering from the drill ground to their quarters. It 
 
178 
 
 APPENDIX II 
 
 chanced that they came upon a young officer trying to 
 force his newly bought horse up to some bloody hides 
 that hung upon a fence beside the road. They volun- 
 teered a precept or two as they passed ; but precepts are 
 mere blank cartridges, worth nothing without the 
 projectile of example. The young officer understood 
 the f act, if not the philosophy, and he intimated a wish 
 that the ^'Drill Sergeant'' might be ridden up to the 
 fence, and he and his colt be shown, not told, how to do 
 it. D. had dismounted then and sent his horse to the 
 stable, but he applauded the lieutenant's sentiment, and 
 said that it was perfectly fair; nothing, he thought, 
 could be more reasonable, and he really hoped it would 
 not be passed by unnoticed. The captain touched the 
 ^^Drill Sergeant's" neck slightly with the rein, who with 
 veteran-like gravity, turned and advanced toward the 
 fence. The captain was sitting loungingly in the saddle, 
 with an air of easy listlessness, one foot playing with 
 the stirrup, the reins hanging loose upon the pommel. 
 He was thinking that the "Drill Sergeant" would march 
 on until his breast touched the fence, and he was in:; 
 tending to say that if young officers would train their 
 colts first, and acquire a moral control over them, they 
 might ride them up to bloody hides also. He was in- 
 deed just turning in his saddle to give utterance to the 
 precept, when there was a bolt which seemed to him a 
 small earthquake — a bolt rearward, roundward, upward, 
 downward, and he found himself some thirty feet dis- 
 tant, and the "Drill Sergeant" standing placidly again 
 
APPENDIX II 179 
 
 in the middle of the road. The rider was not unhorsed, 
 as he confessed he deserved to have been. Without 
 knowing how, he had kept himself on the ^'Drill Ser- 
 geant's" back, who was now, as has been said, standing 
 placidly in the road. The young officer promptly seized 
 his opportunity and said, sarcastically, that he had ex- 
 pected to be shown how to do it — he added seriously 
 that the captain had better not try it again, for that 
 horse was a wicked one, and the '^rock road" with its 
 loose, broken stone, a bad place for a fall. D. blandly 
 interposed, and thought differently. He thought the 
 captain had better try it again — when surprised, he 
 had not been thrown, and now that he was on his guard, 
 there could be no danger. D. added that there was 
 nothing more delightful than to witness a contest be- 
 tween the intelligence of man and the power of a brute. 
 It did him good, he said. Besides, we cavalry officers 
 should not mind a fall ; we must get used to them. 
 
 The captain righted himself in the saddle and gath- 
 ered up the reins. He had been preaching that with 
 horses things should be done slowly and persistently: 
 but as mutiny in officers is worse than mutiny in pri- 
 vates, even so, bolting by a trained and sedate horse is 
 worse than bolting by an impulsive colt, and must be 
 dealt with summarily. The captain turned the ^^Drill 
 Sergeant" again toward the fence; again he advanced 
 freely, and again, before the rider could find time or 
 excuse for driving the spurs into him, there was the same 
 rearward, roundward bolt, and they were standing in 
 
180 APPENDIX II 
 
 the middle of the road. D. applauded highly and said 
 that, if desired, he would ^^certify on honor" that no 
 horse ever did turn around so quickly in this world. 
 He added that he honestly thought that the captain had 
 better try it again ; it was so very entertaining. 
 
 The captain and the horse, externally, were calm; 
 but their two wills had crossed. As the horse turned 
 for the third time toward the fence, a philosopher look- 
 ing on would have asked whether in that brute body 
 there was not some predeterminate resolve ; whether the 
 mouth with the bit in it was not more tightly shut, and 
 the mane-covered forehead was not contracted and knit ; 
 whether the angry light that began to break from the 
 eyes was not radiant with some angry soul within. But 
 here the cunning of the human intellect appeared and 
 took its part in the game — that cunning which, when 
 applied to the movements of contending armies, we call 
 strategy — that covert ally which the brute did not pos- 
 sess. As the horse moved forward to the fence, but ere 
 the bolting point was reached, the rider's spurs came 
 biting fiercely upon his flanks, driving him forward, 
 and the reins held him face to face with the spectre on 
 the fence whither he would not go. Then the horse 
 became a fury, and his dark, sinister eyes turned bloody- 
 red. The rider's knees gripped the saddle more closely, 
 and his arms grew stronger to bend the strong neck of 
 the animal and to rein around his defiant head ; but as 
 the fight grew hot, his cunning ally fled the field and 
 the contest became more equal — strategy no longer took 
 
APPENDIX II 181 
 
 a part in the struggle ; it was skill and strength against 
 strength and skill — the sharp sting of the spurs, the iron 
 hoofs beating on rocks and stones — each creature in- 
 tuitively knowing and resisting every act of the other, 
 neither of them gaining or losing an inch — the one no 
 nearer his goal, the other unable to fling off his warring 
 burden. 
 
 But it Vv^as a battle without result ; the bugle sounded 
 the "retreat" ; the king of the tournament dropped his 
 warder ; the heralds proclaimed a truce. D. said it was 
 delightful, charming, but that we must go to the roll- 
 call and get ready for dinner, and have it out in the 
 morning. 
 
 That evening, at the mess dinner-table, the battle was 
 discussed. D. was glowing in his description and de- 
 clared that the "Drill Sergeant" should be named "Tar- 
 quinius Superbus." The majority thought differently 
 and named him "Animus Furiosus," and after that they 
 called him "Animus" for short. 
 
 The following morning promised to be fateful, but 
 the battle was not renewed. It is the unexpected that 
 happens in war. On the one hand, the hides were gone ; 
 on the other. Animus walked serenely up to the fence, 
 rested his neck upon it, looked blandly over with ears 
 inquiringly erect and eyes, for the moment, as inno- 
 cent as a dove's. 
 
 Innocent he continued to appear, obliging, sensible, 
 and grave, but in his heart of hearts was brewing a 
 storm of resentment and revenge. A week or two passed 
 
182 APPENDIX II 
 
 in peace, and then came a day whereon the company to 
 which Animus belonged was to be mustered into the 
 service of the United States. Animus led the column 
 to the mustering officer's official abode, he (and the 
 mustering officer) alone unruffled, unexcited. His rider 
 proud and exultant whenever he glanced back at the 
 ninety splendid young fellows who rode behind. A 
 splendid company it was, splendidly mounted, and as 
 the tramping hoofs resounded through the streets of St. 
 Louis, the two sets of hearts beat faster, and troopers 
 and steeds seemed equally elate. There is an earthly 
 satisfaction in the human breast that none but the 
 trooper knows; when the cavalry cap works itself jaun- 
 tily over, inclining toward the right ear with a saucy 
 pitch forward toward the right eye, requiring the head 
 to be held a little back, and the chin to be drawn a little 
 in, and the chest to be thrown a little out; when the 
 clattering scabbard, the jingling spurs, the champed bit, 
 unite forces with the prancing, sympathetic vanity of 
 the horse; when the eyes that won't stay "front," but 
 "right" and "left" up at second-story windows, not in 
 rude civilian stares, but in gay, half-audacious, half- 
 deferential glances ! 
 
 Through the streets of St. Louis, Animus led, pro- 
 foundly indifferent to the citizens around him; coolly 
 disdainful of the ninety fretting, fuming steeds behind. 
 The "fours" formed platoons, and the platoons wheeled 
 into line, with a precision that must have made the cal- 
 loused mustering officer think himself back at West 
 
APPENDIX II 1^*^ 
 
 Point. And then there came two girls, pretty and 
 young, with smiling, sympathetic loyal faces, in whom 
 the trooper's saucy airs took the form of pretty timidity ; 
 and they stopped and hesitated, and almost came 
 forward, and partly turned back, and seemed to say 
 that their important business did really require them 
 t8 go immediately straight onward dowTi the street, but 
 that they positively could never dare to pass so near to so 
 many men and such terrible horses ; and then the captain 
 of the company— as became the captain of such a com- 
 pany—sought to move himself a trifle farther from the 
 sidewalk and throw a chivalrous yard or two of safety 
 to the timorous damsels ; and then Animus flared up. 
 He had a crooked, Koman nose, had Animus, and a 
 forehead that receded and rounded toward the ears; he 
 was goodlooking in a horseman's, and not in a lady's, 
 sense of the term; and when his eyes turned red and 
 his lips opened and showed white frothy teeth, I have 
 no doubt but that this head of his looked much like a 
 wild eagle's head on a horse's body. The two girls 
 screamed and beat a retreat without any more pretty 
 hesitation, and the rider's blood boiled up at the excuse- 
 less conduct, and he rowelled the horse with his bur- 
 nished spurs and beat him with the flat of his polished 
 
 sabre. 
 
 The horse seemed frantic ; he dashed against the brick 
 walls of the houses; he knocked the alignment of the 
 company to pieces in a trice ; he banged against front- 
 
184 APPENDIX II 
 
 steps and lamp-posts, and sent an aged cobbler fleeing 
 through the back door of his poor, little shop; and he 
 plunged and beat his hoofs upon the cellar door as if 
 he meant immediately to go by that route to the place 
 beloAV. Then he stopped — suddenly — instantaneously 
 — not quenched or quailing, but as if the fight then and 
 there were but ammunition wasted, and he had better 
 save the captain for a better opportunity. And after 
 the affair was over, there came a strong conviction in the 
 rider's mind that the horse might have done more, but 
 would not; and friends began to advise that he should 
 not keep that beast for service; for, they said, if one 
 of his wild moods should come in action, it would be 
 certain death to the man who rode him. 
 
 Again x\nimus lapsed into quiet working ways, bid- 
 ing his time to throw contempt at men and things. An 
 opportunity came one fine Sunday, when there was a 
 grand review at Benton Barracks. It was the first time 
 the young soldiers had seen a field of thousands, and to 
 them the pageant seemed magnificent. If now, when 
 artillery was thundering, and infantry presenting arms, 
 and a dozen regimental bands were playing their loud- 
 est, this horse should rear and pitch as half the horses 
 in the line were doing, it would not be unreasonable, and 
 indeed would be attributed to commendable high spirit. 
 The captain was thinking more of his company than of • 
 his horse, and indeed gave him no thought, till the gen- 
 eral and his staff came down the line. Then, as the 
 
APPENDIX IT 185 
 
 important moment approached when each individual 
 volunteer knew that he must look his best, and all eyes 
 were ''to the front," and every man sitting erect, then 
 he glanced down to see how Animus would take it, and 
 in his astonishment whispered to D. (who was next on 
 the officers' line), and nodded at the horse. D. looked 
 out of the corners of his eyes (his nose being straight 
 to the front, his head erect, and his sabre at a carry), 
 and then he turned red as though he were choking, and 
 shook with laughter as if he might fall off his horse; 
 for then, as the gorgeous staff swept by, and the regi- 
 mental bands blew their loudest blasts, and everybody 
 was all excitement and other horses were well-nigh 
 crazed — then Animus had composedly crossed his fore- 
 legs like the legs of a saw-buck, and had dropped his 
 ears back upon his neck like the ears of a rabbit, and 
 had calmly shut his eyes and serenely sunk into counter- 
 feit slumber. 
 
 But malice still reigned in the heart of Animus, and 
 while he did his work with a gravity above horses, he 
 never let slip an opportunity to do damage. One 
 gloomy morning after the company had been moved 
 from the Abbey Track into Benton Barracks, when rain 
 had been falling and freezing all night and none but a 
 sharp-shod horse could keep his feet. Animus was 
 brought up to the quarters. The orderly had not dared 
 to bring both horses together over the slippery ground, 
 and when he went back, he hitched Animus to a post 
 of the piazza. Animus did not mind being hitched ; he 
 
186 APPENDIX II 
 
 had been hitched to that post a hundred times, where he 
 would shut his eyes and doze by the hour. Around the 
 corner of another range of barracks stood an infantry 
 regiment in line, and the sergeants could be heard call- 
 ing their rolls. Nothing disturbed the horse, for no- 
 body was stirring that morning, but the instant the 
 orderly was out of sight, he began to pull violently at 
 the halter. The red eyes were upon him, and the piazza 
 post to which he was hitched was a contending foe. It 
 gave way at the roof and broke off at the floor. It was a 
 stout four by five inch joist, twelve feet long, and as an 
 anchor would have brought an ordinary horse round 
 ''head to the wind" ; and an ordinary horse breaking 
 loose on a cold rainy day, if he had made off with it in 
 tow, would have headed for his stable. Animus turned 
 in an opposite direction and, holding his head on one 
 side and his nose near to the ground, scoured off as fast 
 as he could go, the joist skimming like a sled over the 
 icy glare. He headed for the barracks, behind which 
 was the infantry regiment, and all who saw him prayed 
 devoutly that when he should turn the corner he would 
 lose his footing, and fall and break his neck. He did 
 not, and as the heavy joist swung from centrifugal force 
 almost up to an alignment with the horse, every one 
 thought that the infernal machine, like a Roman chariot 
 with scythes on the axles, must mow down at least 
 twenty men. But the infantry, when the tornado of 
 horse and timber came rushing around the corner, broke 
 ranks faster than the "double quick," and the joist 
 
APPENDIX II 187 
 
 merely grazed a number of heroic shins. Then Animus, 
 seeing that he had failed in his diabolical, or rebel de- 
 sign, halted, was caught and brought back, looking both 
 innocent and imconcerned. 
 
 But we must omit some of the incidents of his life 
 and pass to his myterious taking off. In the dreariness 
 of winter and of barrack-life among strangers and sick 
 and home-sick men, the greatest of blessings was a day's 
 escape from the camp. It came occasionally in the guise 
 of some duty to be done in the city, and one lucky morn- 
 ing, a coveted ''pass" reached the captain's quarters. 
 The orderly brought up the horses, and his happening 
 to be lame, he rode Animus. A merry, active, light- 
 hearted German boy was the orderly ; familiar, yet never 
 presumptuous; scrupulous and rigid in the punctilious 
 respect he always paid to his captain. 'None but a Ger- 
 man could unite so much familiar ease with so much 
 ceremonious deference. Unbidden, he held bit and stir- 
 rup as the officer mounted ; untaught he "took distance" 
 behind him and never varied from his respectful place. 
 If the captain's horse trotted, his trotted; if the cap- 
 tain's galloped, his galloped ; and never had the captain 
 given the orderly command or hint. He had been quick 
 to find out from old Prussian soldiers the respect which 
 he should ceremoniously pay his officer, and was proud 
 to pay it. But suddenly there came from the orderly a 
 blast of Dutch execration ; he was almost out of the sad- 
 dle, and Animus about to finish the job. The captain 
 sung out sharply to the horse, who stopped instantly, 
 
188 APPETTDIX II 
 
 and the orderly climbed back and recovered his seat. For 
 more than three months had the orderly taken care of 
 Animus, and more than three hundred times had he rid- 
 den him bareback to water. He could not account for 
 this freak now. ^^Tee horse go quiet — I no do anything, 
 and then he throw me off most" ; and there came ming- 
 ling terms of indignation and reproach addressed pri- 
 vately to Animus in smothered German. 
 
 The city, after the camp, seemed civilization, cleanli- 
 ness, decency, comfort; a warm bath and an arm-chair 
 luxuries too great for times of war. The captain en- 
 tered Barnum's Hotel with such a loving feeling as no 
 hotel can kindle again. And the cheery proprietors, 
 Messrs. Barnum and Fogg — many a wounded and home- 
 sick officer's blessing rests upon them — they seemed 
 angels in disguise, with the difference that instead of 
 seeking entertainment, they entertained. 
 
 The captain found a friend at the hotel and they 
 dined together in the ladies' ordinary; and the ladies 
 appeared divinely graceful after one had seen, for weeks, 
 nothing but men in stiff Quaker coats, dyed blue, with a 
 row of brass buttons down the front. And after dinner 
 the two friends smoked and talked, and felt so at ease, 
 by their two selves, with no dense throng around them ; 
 but part they must, for the lieutenant had been ill — 
 lucky dog — and had a week's leave, and was not to go 
 back to the barracks that night. 
 
 When eight o'clock came the captain pulled on his 
 overcoat, bade good-night, and with slow, reluctant steps. 
 
appe:?^dix II 189 
 
 went down into the street. The orderly, true to a min- 
 ute, was coming with the horses, riding the captain's 
 mare, to keep the saddle dry; for the weather had 
 changed and the cold north wind was blowing a gale 
 and snow beating fiercely down. The captain pulled up 
 his coat collar and mounted ; the orderly swung himself 
 into his own saddle, and off they went through deserted 
 streets, and dark, bleak suburbs. 
 
 But as they passed from the lights of the town into 
 the gloom beyond. Animus again made one of his savage 
 bolts, and again the orderly was half out of the saddle 
 and clinging by the mane. The captain sung out to the 
 horse as before, and the horse, as before, obeyed and 
 stopped. They rode fast, they rode slowly, but again 
 and again and again this performance was repeated; 
 the orderly never quite unhorsed, the horse always stop- 
 ping the instant he was commanded. 
 
 At length they reached the camp. As the captain 
 dismounted at his quarters, he gave a reluctant, a deli- 
 cate intimation to the orderly that it would be wise to 
 dismount and lead the horses to the stable. The or- 
 derly, who was well-nigh in tears at Animus's ungrate- 
 ful conduct, regarded the proposition as extraordinary, 
 which it was ; and he pleaded, with German vehemence, 
 that the whole company would laugh at him and "the 
 boys" would shout whenever they saw him : "Where's 
 the man who couldn't ride his own horse to the barn ?" 
 which they would. He also urged that he could ride any 
 horse in the world, and that no horse in the world would 
 
190 APPENDIX II 
 
 "cut up" at the end of a day's work, when his accus- 
 tomed groom was taking him to his accustomed stable. 
 The last argument seemed reasonable, and indeed the 
 original suggestion began to appear absurd. The cap- 
 tain, in unspoken words, yielded the point ; the orderly 
 wheeled the horses and moved off, riding the one and 
 leading the other. A shadowy sense of coming catas- 
 trophe kept the captain at his door, watching them until 
 he saw horses and horseman turn the corner of the bar- 
 racks and disappear. Then he unpadlocked the door 
 and lighted his candle. A small room roughly boarded 
 off from the men's quarters, an army cot covered with a 
 couple of rough army blankets, a "mess-chest table," a 
 camp chair, a spare saddle, and horse-trappings, a fire- 
 less stove, an atmosphere laden with the dust and noise 
 and stale tobacco smoke of the men's quarters. The cap- 
 tain and his company were then the victims of a com- 
 bination between unscrupulous political selfishness, on 
 the one side, and arbitrary military power, on the other 
 — a doubly dangerous union ; for military power is bad 
 enough alone, and needs to be restrained and guided by 
 honor and impartiality. The company had been stolen 
 from the regiment in which all had enlisted, and been 
 taken to help make up a new command for somebody's 
 son-in-law. Hence, at this time, the captain was friend- 
 less and alone. 
 
 He did not unbutton his overcoat nor kindle his fire, 
 but paced up and down the narrow room, thinking at 
 first of the horse, and then of Barnum's and then of 
 
APPENDIX II 191 
 
 home. He thought and walked and walked and thought 
 until, unexpectedly, the door opened and the orderly 
 appeared. Pain and mortification and truthful resolve 
 struggled in the lines of his face. "Cap-e-tan, te horse 
 trow me ; he run away in the fair grounds, he jump over 
 a pile of wood. I hav look-ed and look-ed, and can no 
 find him.'' 
 
 What infernal imp had possessed this strange animal ? 
 The orderly was a good rider, a good groom, possessed 
 of great power over horses. Others would follow him 
 without bridles, like dogs. Why had this brute flung 
 him off on the instant that he turned toward his own 
 stable, and then galloped off into the darkness and the 
 storm? When the orderly shot out of the saddle, the 
 captain's mare had gone straight to her own stall in the 
 stable. 
 
 The orderly got a lantern and led the way to the place 
 where he was unhorsed, at the end of the barracks — 
 thence and across the wide expanse of the parade, and 
 into the Fair Grounds and to a pile of corded wood, five 
 feet at least in height and four in thickness. What horse 
 would choose to rush at such a leap on a dark night and 
 with slippery, snowy footing — at such a needless leap ? 
 But by the light of the lantern could be seen a horse's 
 trail which led up to the woodpile, broke off, and reap- 
 peared on the other side. They resumed the search. 
 The trail led through the grove of the Fair Grounds, 
 and at last was lost in the deepening snow. As the 
 searchers stopped, the storm roared through the swaying 
 
192 
 
 APPENDIX II 
 
 brandies above them as if the powers of the air were on 
 the blast, and the horse had gone to meet them. The 
 captain and the orderly came back into the encampment, 
 where a soldier, plodding through the snow, told them 
 that he had just seen a horse near by. They resumed 
 their quest, and soon found Animus standing within the 
 shelter of an empty tent. But on the snowy floor be- 
 neath him was a small red pool, and on his right flank, 
 between the body and the leg, was a frightful gash — 
 the gash you cut in carving the leg of a fowl — a "clean 
 cut,'' and large enough for one to lay in it his hand, 
 widespread. Animus looked morose and stern — not sad 
 or repentant. 
 
 He was led to his stable and the regimental farrier 
 came, who brought other regimental farriers in consul- 
 tation, just as humanity's farriers come and consult over 
 human victims. "Extraordinary," they all pronounced 
 the wound, and without a precedent ; and they all vouch- 
 safed theories, but agreed on none; and flnally they all 
 concluded that nothing could be done — the patient must 
 be abandoned to nature and cooling washes, and his 
 "chances." 
 
 A fortnight later, when the wound was at its worst,, 
 and the horse was standing, day and night, upon three 
 legs, great news came roaring, and yelling, and hurrah- 
 ing through Camp Benton — news of victory — of the 
 first decisive victory of the war ; that Commodore Foote 
 had taken Fort Henry with his "Tin-Clads," that the 
 river was open, and the stars and stripes flying in Ten- 
 
APPENDIX II 103 
 
 nessee. An hour later came more significant news for 
 some — ''The Fifth Iowa Cavalry will march instantly." 
 It takes a new regiment in barracks at least twelve 
 hours to ''march instantly." Eations to be cooked, tents 
 to be overhauled (the guys gnawed by suspected mice, 
 the pegs burnt by unsuspected criminals), men insisting 
 that their horses must be shod, blacksmiths that 
 their forges must be packed, mules seditiously kicking 
 the harness to pieces the moment they hear that they are 
 to be put to some practical purpose ; every man suddenly 
 discovering that somebody has jayhawked his boots or 
 his blanket; and the quarter-sergeant discovering 
 that the boots are packed and loaded, and the blankets 
 too few to go round ; lieutenants and sergeants, corporals 
 and men excitedly rushing to their captain in their in- 
 dividual perplexity ; the captain for a time the unhappy 
 mother of a distracted family, that wants everything 
 and doesn't know what it doesn't want ; finally, the ser- 
 geant-major of the regiment, coming round every hour 
 to say to every company that every other company in 
 the regiment is ready and waiting for this one, and that 
 the colonel wants to know how much longer they must 
 
 wait, etc. 
 
 The turmoil lasted during the night, but as the sun 
 came up o'er the smoky city, the column moved ; and the 
 hoofbeats on the frozen ground and rumbling baggage 
 wagons rolled out a farewell to Eenton Barracks. The 
 cap'tain, then a member of a court-martial sitting at the 
 Barracks, could not march with his men, and had to re- 
 
194 APPENDIX II 
 
 main until the formal order should come dissolving the 
 court. With an impatient heart he stood watching the 
 long-drawn column wind around the parade and pass 
 through the gateway of the camp, and saw, last of all, 
 the orderly disappear leading his own blanketed horses. 
 Then he turned and handed a "pass" to his servant, and 
 gave him directions to lead Animus slowly to the "sick 
 stable.'' 
 
 The "company stable" was but a stone's throw distant 
 from where they stood, and only a few minutes had 
 passed since "Boots and Saddles" had sounded and the 
 company horses had been led out, leaving the wounded 
 horse the only tenant of the long shed. Moodily he had 
 continued to gaze at his manger, giving to his departing 
 mates barely a glance, but neither whinny nor regret. 
 The man took the "pass" and went directly to the shed, 
 In the first moment, when all eyes were withdrawn, 
 Animus had disappeared. 
 
 "Disappeared but not lost," every one said ; for bar- 
 racks and stables were enclosed by a wooden wall, twelve 
 feet high and guarded by sentinels, and through the only 
 exit no one could go without a "pass," and the guards at 
 the gate were notified to stop him, thief and all. More- 
 over, the horse had not set his lame leg to the ground for 
 a fortnight, and it was doubted whether he could hobble 
 on three to the sick stable. Besides, who would want a 
 disabled animal, not fit for service now, nor for months 
 to come ; and was not a man leading a desperately lame 
 horse in broad daylight a noticeable object, that a thou- 
 
APPENDIX II 195 
 
 sand men would see and remember? The camp was 
 searched — searched for two days through every stable, 
 tent, and shed that could hold a horse. The case was 
 stated to every cavalry commander and his word of 
 honor pledged that, if the horse were "hidden away" 
 by any one of '^his boys," no matter what their genius 
 for hiding horses away might be, he should nevertheless 
 be found and given up. A reward was offered, and Ani- 
 mus was described by his peculiar regimental brand and 
 tongue and wound; and the advertisement was posted 
 in every quartermaster office and corral, and livery- 
 stable. Finally a shrewd, quiet man was set at work as 
 detective ; and, six months later, the captain, piqued by 
 all his failures, went back to St. Louis and himself tried 
 to find a clue to the mystery. 'No clue was found. Ani- 
 mus had disappeared ; that was what was said at first, 
 and all that could be said at last ; he had disappeared. 
 Indeed, it might be sung of him as of Thomas the 
 Rhymer, 
 
 "And ne'er in haunts of living men 
 Again was Thomas seen." 
 
 At this point, doubtless, there will be expected an ex- 
 planation such as comes at the end of a novel. But the 
 tale is true. The mysteries of truth are often lacking in 
 the explanations of fiction. The case was laid before D., 
 who had been a United States District Attorney before 
 he became a captain of volunteers, and was versed in the 
 ways of "working up a case" against counterfeiters on 
 land or pirates at sea. He wrote back a letter — a beau- 
 
196 APPENDIX II 
 
 tiful letter — expressing in charming terms his regret, his 
 very great regret, that so interesting a character as his 
 friend Animus should have withdrawn from the sphere 
 of human observation; but when he came to the expla- 
 nation, his professional experience and legal acumen 
 were futile; and he had to fall back (evasively) upon 
 the supernatural ; Animus was clearly a fiend — an emis- 
 sary of the Devil or Jeff Davis (it made very little dif- 
 ference which, he said), who had marked the captain for 
 his peculiar prey. On the day of his wound (which 
 need not be accounted for), fearing that he was to be- 
 come the orderly's horse and that the captain would 
 thereby escape his toils, he resorted to strategy; and, 
 like all fiends resorting to strategy, overacted his part ; 
 whereby vice is defeated and virtue escapes. Finding 
 his schemes subverted and his efforts brought to nought, 
 and disbelieving that he was to be the object of humani- 
 tarian care or Christian charity — the latter, moreover, 
 being justly offensive to him — he seized upon the first 
 moment when unseen by mortal or equine eye to vanish 
 in a puff of smoke. 
 
 'No doubt our readers will exclaim as they finish 
 the story : ^^I wonder if it is true ?" Yes, every 
 word of it ; and here is a letter which Captain I^ott re- 
 ceived long afterwards, when he had become Judge !N'ott, 
 from the editor of the Herald, Grinnell, Iowa, about the 
 horse and his end. Certainly he was one of the very re- 
 markable horses of the world ; in fact when he died his 
 
APPENDIX II 197 
 
 obituary filled nearly a column in the Herald, a distinc- 
 tion which probably many people there did not receive 
 when they died. 
 
 The Herald, 
 
 Cravath & Ray, Proprietors. 
 
 Grinnell, Iowa, March 13, 1893. 
 Clias. C. Nott, Esq., 
 
 Dear Sir: — I have read your Tale of a Goblin 
 Horse, in the March Scrihner's Magazine, with a strange 
 interest. The following will explain why : 
 
 Late in October, 1865, I moved from the city of Spring- 
 field, Ohio, to Mitchell, then the county seat of Mitchell 
 County, Iowa. I came West as a young physician to try 
 my fortune in the new West. I of course needed a horse, 
 but money was scarce and horses were high. It became 
 known soon that I was a young "tenderfoot," ready to 
 buy almost anything in the shape of horse-flesh that would 
 carry a man on his back, whether he could be driven to a 
 vehicle or not. Among the horses offered for my inspec- 
 tion was a medium-sized sorrel, so poor that he looked as 
 if he had been kept for some months on a diet of barrel- 
 hoops. He was miserably, shockingly poor, but emaciated 
 as he was, he showed unmistakable indications of spirit. 
 As soon as his rider took his seat on his back, his head and 
 tail were up and he moved oif, pacing or galloping. He 
 was broken only to saddle. He was supposed to be about 
 eight years old. His tongue was nearly in two parts, either 
 by a vicious cut of a knife, or more probably by tying a 
 strong cord about the tongue until it had cut the organ 
 
198 APPENDIX II 
 
 nearly half through. He was broad between the eyes, and 
 had a peculiar habit of yawning when any one approached 
 him, as if he was dozing. There was an indistinct scar 
 between the body and the hind leg on the right side, and 
 other small scars in other parts of the body. There was 
 no perceptible brand on him, but he had unquestionably 
 been in the army, for he was broken only to the saddle, and 
 other habits showed that he had had a military training. 
 
 One of his eyes, the right, was peculiar, and when he 
 rolled it in fright or anger looked red and wicked. In af- 
 ter years I found that it was defective in some way. It 
 seemed to give him distorted or imperfect views of objects, 
 so that it was not an unusual thing for him to pass any- 
 thing in the road without notice when seen with his left eye, 
 but on the return trip, when passing to the right, he would 
 ''bolt" or turn and rush away in an uncontrollable panic. 
 I bought him because he was offered at so low a price, one 
 hundred dollars — a good horse at that time being worth 
 about two hundred dollars. A local farmer and horse- 
 trader owned him, but he had not been in his possession 
 long. He had picked him up at a place about forty miles 
 south called Nashua. This was all I could learn of his 
 previous history. 
 
 About three years after I had purchased him, and with 
 infinite patience broken him to drive, I stopped one day 
 in front of the hotel in West Mitchell, when a stranger 
 came out, walked about the horse, eyeing him keenly, and 
 finally going to his head, opened his mouth. As he caught 
 
 sight of his tongue he exclaimed, '^y if it isn't old 
 
 Dan" (or it might have been "An — " (imus), for short. 
 I was some distance from him when he spoke the name. 
 
APPENDIX II 199 
 
 I asked him what he knew about the horse. "Nothing," 
 said he, "except that he is the worst horse I ever knew." 
 To the question "where he had known him" ? he remarked, 
 as he walked away, "Down below," meaning, as I under- 
 stood him, down the river. 
 
 The disposition, actions and performancea of the "Goblin 
 Horse" as detailed by you fit exactly the horse when 
 bought. His frantic terror at a raw hide or buffalo robe 
 hanging on a fence exceeded anything of the kind I ever 
 saw in horse-flesh. It was a good horseman that would not 
 be unseated, if he attempted to force the horse up to such 
 an object. The quickness with which he would bolt and 
 make most surprising leaps backward, upward or gyrating 
 like a top, was as astonishing to his rider as it was laugh- 
 able to beholders. He was a horse subject to tremendously 
 sudden impulses. I was once riding him along a road 
 which was cut in the bluffs on Cedar River. The water 
 was high and filled with ice and debris, and running over 
 the roadway. The horse waded patiently for a quarter of 
 a mile or more, when, without a tremor of warning, he 
 sprang upward against the side of the bluff, which rose at 
 this point five or six feet perpendicularly, and then sloped 
 at a sharp angle fifty or seventy feet more. I felt certain 
 that he would fall backward and, as the roadway was very 
 narrow, into the deep water of the river. To save myself, 
 I jumped and threw myself against the bluff, which was 
 so steep I did not think it advisable to risk alighting on my 
 feet. The horse did not fall backward, but climbed to the 
 top of the bluff in quicker time than I could, and waited 
 for me at the top. I have always supposed that a floating 
 piece of ice or log, striking him from behind, gave him the 
 sudden impulse. I could give several chapters of episodes 
 
200 APPENDIX II 
 
 in his career to match those narrated by you. Whenever 
 "a terror" seized him, restraint only maddened him. It 
 was impossible to control him by bit or bridle. He would 
 clash blindly against a stone wall or over a precipice. 
 
 I owned him from November, 1865 to September, 1892 
 — nearly twenty-seven years — and gave him decent burial 
 on my residence lot at this place. I suppose that he was 
 between thirty-five and thirty-six years of age when he 
 died. He was a horse of tremendous endurance and never 
 needed a whip to make him go. He would always "mind 
 the word" quicker than the bit. By kindness and humor- 
 ing his whims to some extent, he became a very service- 
 able, faithful and even affectionate horse. He would some- 
 times break loose (as in the veranda episode in your nar- 
 rative), when hitched near something he did not like, but 
 he never went away and left me. He always waited nearby 
 for me and would follow me without leading strap, like a 
 dog. For the last ten years of his life he became quiet 
 enough for a family horse, and was daily used by my wife 
 for driving. 
 
 It may interest you to know that the last twenty-seven 
 years of his life he was known by the name of "^Pegasus." 
 A neighboring practitioner after witnessing one of his ter- 
 rific tantrums named him the "Fiery Pegasus." The name 
 was accepted, and he was always known by it thereafter. 
 In 1872 I moved to Grrinnell, where the horse has had a 
 comparatively easy life, as I quit the practice of medicine 
 at that time. 
 
 Pardon me for this intrusion upon youT time and at- 
 tention. I thought these facts might interest j^ou, as yours 
 have certainly interested me. It has seemed to me that the 
 identification was as complete as it could well be. The ab- 
 
APPENDIX 11 
 
 201 
 
 sence of the brand, considering the lapse of time, does not 
 seem to me important. He had a very thick coat of hair 
 and the brand probably came off with the first shedding. 
 It would have taken a regiment of men to hold him long 
 enough for a branding iron to make a permanent mark. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 S. A. Cravath. 
 
*'' 
 
■ 
 
 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 ..,. illl. ^ 
 
 013 763 516 1