I
A young lady, just returned from college, was making a still-hunt in
the house for old things--old furniture, old china, and old books. She
had a craze for the antique, and the older things were the more
precious they were in her eyes. Among other things she found an old
scrap-book that her mother and I thought was safe under lock and key.
She sat in a sunny place and read it page by page, and, when she had
finished, her curiosity was aroused. The clippings in the old
scrap-book were all about the adventures of a Union scout whose name
was said to be Captain Frank Leroy. The newspaper clippings that had
been preserved were queerly inconsistent. The Northern and Western
papers praised the scout very highly, and some of them said that if
there were more such men in the army the cause of the Union would
progress more rapidly; whereas the Southern papers, though paying a
high tribute to the dash and courage of the scout, were highly abusive.
He was "one of Lincoln's hirelings" and as villanous as he was bold.
The girl graduate at once jumped to the conclusion that there was a
story behind the old scrap-book, else why should it be preserved by her
father, who had been a Confederate soldier? This idea no sooner took
shape than she became insistently inquisitive. As for her father, the
very sight of the scrap-book awoke the echoes of a hundred
experiences--long and dangerous rides in the lonely night, battles,
sharp skirmishes and bitter sufferings.
The story, such as it was, took shape in my mind, and I am afraid that
the young girl had small difficulty in persuading me to tell it. Memory
brought before me the smiling features of Harry Herndon, my life-long
friend and comrade, the handsome face of Jack Bledsoe, one of our
college mates from Missouri, and the beautiful countenance of his
sister, Katherine Bledsoe. These and a hundred other faces came
crowding from the past, and the story was told almost before I knew it.
When Harry Herndon and I went to the wars we were somewhat belated. The
excitement of '61 found us at college, where we had orders to remain
until we had finished the course, and the orders came from one whom we
had never dared to disobey--Harry's grandmother. And then, when we were
ready to go, she cut in ahead of our plans and sent us to the West with
letters to General Dabney Maury, whom she had known when he was a boy
and later when he was a young officer in the regular army.
We were not ill-equipped for two raw youngsters; we had Whistling Jim,
the negro, three fine horses, and more money than I had ever seen
before. We went to General Maury and were most courteously received.
The Virginia Herndons--Harry belonged to the Maryland branch--were
related to him--and he liked the name. We caught the barest glimpse of
service at Corinth, and were fortunate enough to be in a few
skirmishes, where we distinguished ourselves by firing at nothing
whatever.
In the course of a few weeks General Maury was made commander of the
Department of the Gulf, with headquarters at Mobile, where we saw
service as clerks and accountants. For my part, the life suited me
passing well, but Harry Herndon fretted so that we were soon
transferred to the command of General Forrest, who was sadly in need of
men. As it happened, we had little difficulty in finding our man. We
had heard that he was in the neighborhood of Chattanooga, giving his
men and horses a much-needed rest; but on the way news came to us that,
in spite of his brilliant achievements in the field, he had been
deprived of the choicest regiments of his brigade--men whom he had
trained and seasoned to war. After this mutilation of his command, he
had been ordered to Murfreesborough to recruit and organize a new
brigade.
Toward Murfreesborough, therefore, we made our way, falling in with a
number of Forrest's men who had been on a brief visit to their homes in
Alabama and were now returning to their command. As we shortly
discovered, the Union commanders in Tennessee mistook General Forrest's
movement to the neighborhood of Chattanooga for a retreat; for, shortly
after he moved in that direction, an ambitious Federal officer asked
and received permission to enter Northern Alabama with a force large
enough to worry the Confederate leader if he could be found. The
organization and equipment of this force required a longer time than
the Federal commander had counted on, and by the time it was ready to
move General Forrest, with the remnant of his command, was on his way
to Murfreesborough.
In some way--the sources of his information were as mysterious as his
movements--General Forrest learned that a Federal force was making its
way toward Northern Alabama, and he did not hesitate to give it his
attention. Within a very short time he had followed and overtaken it,
passing it on a road that lay parallel to its line of march. Then it
was that the Federal commander began to hear rumors and reports all
along his route that Forrest was making a rapid retreat before him. It
was stated that his men were discontented and that the condition of his
horses was something terrible.
One day, along toward evening, the Federal commander went into camp in
the neighborhood of a wooded hill that commanded the approach from the
south. He felt sure that the next day would witness the rout and
capture of the Confederate who had for so long harassed the Federals in
Tennessee. As he came to the hill he passed within a few hundred yards
of Forrest's men, who were concealed in the woods. The Federals went
into camp, while Forrest, leaving a part of his command in the enemy's
rear, silently passed around his right flank.
Now, it happened that Harry Herndon and myself, accompanied by
Whistling Jim and the companions we had picked up on the way, were
coming up from the south. It happened also that we were following the
road leading through the valley to the left of the hill on which the
opposing forces were stationed. It was very early in the morning, and
as we rode along there was not a sound to be heard, save the jingling
of our bridles.
The valley had more length than breadth, and was shaped something like
a half-moon, the road following the contour of the crescent. We had
proceeded not more than a hundred yards along the road within the
compass of the valley when a six-pounder broke the silence with a bang,
and a shell went hurtling through the valley. It seemed to be so
uncomfortably near that I involuntarily ducked my head.
"Marse Cally Shannon," said Whistling Jim, the negro, addressing me,
"what you reckon make dem white folks bang aloose at we-all, when we
ain't done a blessed thing? When it come ter dat, we ain't ez much ez
speaken ter um, an' here dey come, bangin' aloose at us. An' mo' dan
dat, ef dat ar bung-shell had 'a' hit somebody, it'd 'a' fetched sump'n
mo' dan blood."
Whistling Jim's tone was plaintive, but he seemed no more frightened
than Harry was. Following the bang of the gun came the sharp rattle of
musketry. We learned afterward that this firing occurred when the
advance guard of the Federal commander collided with Forrest's famous
escort. We had no idea of the result of the collision, or that there
had been a collision. We had paused to make sure of our position and
whereabouts. Meanwhile, the little six-pounder was barking away
furiously, and presently we heard a strident voice cut the morning air:
"Go and tell Freeman to put his battery right in on that gun. I give
you five minutes."
"That's our man!" cried one of the troopers who had fallen in with us
on our journey. Joy shone in his face as he urged his horse forward,
and we followed right at his heels. In a moment we saw him leap from
his horse and throw the bridle-reins to a trooper who was holding a
string of horses. We gave ours to Whistling Jim to hold and ran forward
with the man we had been following.
We came right upon General Forrest--I knew him from the newspaper
portraits, poor as they were. He was standing with his watch in his
hand. He looked us over with a coldly critical eye, but gave us no
greeting. He replaced the watch in his pocket and waved his hand to a
bugler who was standing expectantly by his side. The clear notes rang
out, and instantly there ensued a scene that baffles description. There
was a rush forward, and Harry and I were carried with it.
I could hear loud commands, and shouting, and the rattle of carbines,
muskets, and pistols made my ears numb--but what happened, or when or
where, I could no more tell you than the babe at its mother's breast. I
could only catch glimpses of the fighting through the smoke, and though
I was as close to General Forrest as any of his men--right by his side,
in fact--I could not tell you precisely what occurred. I could hear
cries and curses and the explosion of firearms, but beyond that all was
mystery.
I had time during the _melee_ to take note of the actions of General
Forrest, and I observed that a great change had come over him. His
face, which was almost as dark as an Indian's when in perfect repose,
was now inflamed with passion and almost purple. The veins on his neck
stood out as though they were on the point of bursting, and his blazing
eyes were bloodshot. Above the din that was going on all around him his
voice could be heard by friend and foe alike. I cannot even describe my
own feelings.
A courier rode up. He had lost his hat, and there was a spot of blood
on his chin. He reported that the Federals were making a desperate
effort on the extreme right. "He's tryin' to git away!" yelled Forrest
in a voice that could be heard all over the field. "Tell Freeman to
take his guns thar and shove 'em in right on top of 'em. We've got the
bulge on 'em here, and we're coming right along."
[Illustration: "He's tryin' to git away!" yelled Forrest in a voice
that could be heard all over the field.]
And, sure enough, we began to find less and less resistance in front of
us, and presently I could see them running out into the valley, filling
the road by which we had come.