roads; and some drenched pickets, who look as though they wanted to be
hung on a fence to dry, inform me that I will have hard work to get
through, and that it has rained all night as it is raining now. At
home, what a hardship, what an outrage it would be to send us off in
such weather and on such roads. Now, we fear something may prevent,
and hurry lest it come, for the road is not more uncomfortable than
the camp, or the rain wetter elsewhere than it is here. The doctor is a
grey-headed, prudent, experienced man, and is something of an invalid;
but he stoutly discredits a rumor that the wounded men have died, and
whispers to me that we had better be off, before any more such stories
come in.
A flag of truce is not kept ready-made in camp, and we are rather
puzzled of what to make one now. "I'd lend you my white handkerchief"
(says a man who has been listening with great gravity to various
suggestions)--"I'd lend you my white handkerchief, only I'm afeard if
you put it up, the rebels 'ud think you'd histe-tud the black flag, and
give you no quarter." We do not borrow the white handkerchief. But at
length we remember the hospital tent, and the hospital steward produces
a piece of white something from his stores, which is bound around a
stick and made into a flag.
Under circumstances such as these, the doctor climbs into the
ambulance, I mount my horse, and we start. The rain somewhat abates,
and diminishes to a drizzle, which is a great relief; but the ambulance
drags along snail-like through the mud. We, who are mounted, do not
ride faster than a walk, yet repeatedly have to wait, and watch it
crawling after us among the trees. This slow movement gives little
exercise, and when one starts wet, he soon becomes cold and stiff,
sitting thus motionless in a damp saddle. Nor can we trot off a mile or
two, and then wait for the ambulance to 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
inquire into the facts. A surgeon is a non-combatant, and not required
to be shot at, and we must stay near by and shield him, if nothing more.
Our road is the first object of interest--a wagon track running
along high forest ridges, parallel to the Tennessee. We soon pass a
little timber house, with its scanty field and scantier garden; and
then go on, on, two, three miles, without seeing a sign of life; and
then we turn into the main road from the river to Paris. There is
now a railroad passing through Paris, from Nashville to Memphis, yet
a year ago the road we are now travelling was its main avenue. We
are, therefore, disappointed in finding that although the farms are
frequent, they are poor and neglected, and the dwellings are the same
backwoods, timber houses we have so often seen.
We have now travelled seven or eight miles, and have passed the
"_line of our pickets_." In point of fact, there is no line, real or
imaginary, and we do not see a single picket; yet, inasmuch as our
cavalry is constantly passing through and examining, by night and by
day, a belt of country from six to eight miles wide, it is customary to
speak of that belt as within our picket lines. Hitherto I have ridden
at the head of the party, and the ambulance has followed close behind.
Now some additional precaution is necessary. A man rides about the
width of a city block ahead of us carrying the flag, and the ambulance
falls back about the same distance in the rear. The object of these
changes is, first, that a man riding alone in advance indicates that
it is not an ordinary scouting party; and second, if shots are fired,
the doctor and his man will be out of danger. The chief risks we run
are, first, that our object may not be perceived, and we be fired into
before we can explain; and second, that King's cavalry, who are said to
have suffered in the late fight, and to be a wild, marauding set, may
never have heard of the laws of war, and utterly disregard the flag of
truce.
Five hours have passed, and we have just reached Mr. Clokes'.
How delightful is a wood fire, roaring and crackling in a wide,
old-fashioned fire-place, and how comforting is a dry board floor in
a rainy day! Chairs and a table, too, are articles of luxury, if one
but knew it; and when you have dined and breakfasted, seated on logs
or saddles, or such like conveniences, for a few weeks, you appreciate
them properly. I might add a paragraph on plates and knives and forks;
but of those I have not been deprived more than a week at a time, and
hence they do not fall within the class of novelties.
This dinner I shall always fondly remember. I cannot call to mind any
other dinner that at all rivals it. We are so hungry, and cold, and
wet, and it is so pleasant to "_sit down to dinner_" once more. And
then this dinner is so nice, and neat, and plentiful, showing, for a
soldier's cooking, a good housewife's _care_! If that bewatered goose
could see it, he would feel ashamed of himself, and request leave
to be cooked over again. I was about to begin with the tablecloth,
and enumerate all that was on it; but it occurs to me that what is a
feast to us is an every-day affair to you, and that you will shrug
your shoulders, and say, "Not much of a dinner after all." And I must
confess that Mrs. Clokes' apologies called my attention to certain
wants, which show that our blockade has been effective in disturbing
the serenity of Southern housewives.
"I have nothing but rye coffee to offer you, gentlemen: it is
impossible for us to get coffee now."
"What does coffee cost down here, Mrs. Clokes?"
"The last we bought was a dollar a pound, but now we cannot get it at
any price. Everything is dreadfully scarce. I'm sorry we have no fresh
meat, but the soldiers [rebels, she means] have taken a great many of
our pigs, and we lost some which we killed, for want of good salt."
Salt, I find, was fourteen dollars a sack when last heard from, and,
like coffee, has gone entirely out of the market.
In the corner is a colored girl carding cotton by hand. I look at the
operation with some interest, and Mrs. Clokes goes on with the story of
her wants: "There is no calico to be had, and we have to spin and weave
by hand. Do you know, sir, whether trade will be opened soon with the
North: our hand-cards are nearly worn out, and I do not know where to
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 North, and he did not enlist till they threatened the drafting. Oh!
why did we ever go to war, we were so prosperous and happy! Gentlemen,
can't you do anything for my son?" And poor Mrs. Clokes' voice fails
her, and she bursts into tears.
But, dinner done, we must resume our journey. It is nine miles now to
Paris. We have seen no rebel pickets; but our friends, the contrabands,
tell us, that they have gone along a little while ago, and it will be
dangerous meeting in the dark.
Thirty years ago two brothers came from Massachusetts and put up their
little spinning-mill near Paris. The mill has grown larger as they
have grown older, and they are now among the wealthy men of the place.
Situated as they are--from the North--from hated Massachusetts;--for
years employing free labor, and owning slaves only through their
Southern wives; they have had to be most circumspect in every word and
act, giving no sign of loyalty, but, I doubt not, secretly exulting
at each success of the national arms. When our troops retreated from
Paris, leaving their dead on the neighboring field, the one brother had
the bodies of our fallen soldiers carefully brought in, and buried
them, as if they were his own kinsmen, in the town cemetery; and the
other took the dying captain of our artillery corps into his own house,
and nursed him tenderly through his last hours. It is in the gloom of
evening that we reach the factory, standing close to the track of the
Memphis railroad, neat and unadorned, New England reflected from every
one of its plain white boards. A gentleman comes forward as we halt,
and I introduce myself. He steps up close, and asks, in a low voice,
if we think we are safe. A train was up an hour ago taking down the
telegraph wires; pickets have galloped past, and are now in Paris, and
he thinks it dangerous for us to go there to-night. He also says, that
he dare not ask us to stop; he came near being arrested for taking in
poor Captain Bullis. If he should ask us, he would be arrested and on
his way to Memphis within twelve hours.
There is a house beyond, where we can stay; but it is a rule with me
to advance, and then fall back to my camping ground. So we retrace our
steps for a mile, and halt at the farm house of a Mr. Horton, who does
not keep a tavern, but does entertain travellers. The sergeant, with
one man, has ridden on to break the subject and make arrangements,
and when we come up, everything is ready. Our weary horses are soon
unsaddled and rolling in straw, and I follow the doctor into the house.
It is an old house, with old trees in front, and an old couple within.
They sit on each side of the wide 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 North in no time."
Our room is a large one, with another large fire and three beds. The
doctor takes one, and I hand the others over to the men; it will not do
for me to undress, so I take my buffalo, and lie down by the fire.
I was beginning to doze, and thinking I never was 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
opening of the door startles me, and I see the sergeant, who is "on
guard," come in.
He reports that two men on horseback came up from Paris; one of them
stopped and called out our host. They had a long conversation in a low
voice, and then the man turned and rode back on a gallop. "And the
contrabands say that the old man is secesh," pursues the sergeant,
"and when the rebel troops went by, he made them come out and hurrah."
This is agreeable. Was the man on horseback a picket, and will there
be a troop clattering down on us in a few minutes? or has he gone to
raise a crowd of irresponsible countrymen, who will think it fine fun
to kill us and capture our horses, and of whom Gen. Beauregard will
say, he really knows nothing, they were not soldiers, and acted without
authority? Is our old friend false to us?
"Sergeant, what do you think of it?"
The sergeant is a shrewd judge of character, and there is no one in
the squadron whose opinion I would regard more highly on such a point
as this. He comes up close to the fire, and I see his face has a very
anxious expression, and he says, after a long pause: "I don't know what
to think of it."
"Well, go back and pick out a place where you can see up the Paris
road, and call me the instant you see any object moving. Doctor, I say,
did you hear that?"
"Yes, and I don't know what to think of it" says the doctor. "Can
anything be done?"
"The worst of it is, doctor, that the flag prevents our doing anything
till actually attacked. We must now go in the character of guests,
professing entire faith. If we were on ordinary duty, our sergeant
would have stopped that man, and I should keep him here till we leave.
As it is, we can neither fight nor run away--though it is hardly fair,
as you are a non-combatant, to make you risk it."
"I think I will risk it if you do," says the doctor; and he turns over
and goes to sleep.
I lie by the fire this time without dozing. The men are all sleeping
heavily and undisturbed. The hovering dagger does not trouble them.
Soon it is time to change guard. I rouse the next man, and the sergeant
comes in and takes his place on the bed. I wonder if other people find
a weight 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, performed his duty, and has no
more responsibility: he now sleeps as soundly as the others.
The man on guard will be relieved of his in an hour or two, and he will
lie down and slumber too. But I hear the distant barking of dogs, and
start up at the sound, for we have learnt to observe the movements of
our own cavalry at night by this sign. Every 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 road side.
"Allen, do you see anything?" "No, sir." "Did you hear that barking?"
"Yes, sir." "Watch whether it sounds again at any other house, and if
it is coming toward us." We listen long but hear nothing. It must have
been a chance disturbance there. I lie down again, consoling myself
with the thought, that I am at least warm and dry. The geese make a
tremendous cackling behind the house. Rome was saved by a flock of
geese, and why shouldn't we be. The sentinel is watching the road in
front; it will be better if I go out and inspect the rear.
Thus the time passes till I post the next man on guard, and thus the
night wears away, till at 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 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 Confederate flag. In another moment
we have entered, and are going up the main street. The first man stops
and looks at us, so does the second and the third. The moment a man
catches a glimpse of us he seems to freeze fast to the sidewalk and
lose all power over himself, save that of staring vacantly at the
Yankee cavalry. We seem to be riding up an avenue of these staring,
frozen images. The red brick court house has a little square around
it and forms a natural halting place. I ride up and ask one of the
frozen if there is any Confederate officer in town. He says "No," in
a frightened way; "they 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 North Moore street education has made me much more
particular in "_deportment_" than volunteer officers generally are, and
my squadron, when on duty, generally bears the same appearance to some
other squadrons that North Moore street does to some other schools.
These townspeople are therefore very much astonished to see a man left
on guard with the horses, and perfectly amazed when he draws his sabre
and marches steadily up and down his beat, and I hear one whisper,
"Perhaps they be United States reg'lars."
In a few minutes there is quite a crowd of 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 swallowed alive.
It is best to be cool and comfortable under all sorts of circumstances,
so I take out my pipe, exhibit a North Moore street bag to these gay
Parisians, and strike a light. Picking out the most sensible man near
me, I commence a conversation complimenting them on the appearance
of their little town, which is more northernly neat than I expected
to find. Some men then come up and hand to me the little effects of
our dead soldiers, and give many assurances of their kindness to
our wounded. The doctor about this time comes back, and we start
immediately on our return. For some miles I march rapidly, urging the
ambulance horses to their utmost, for there is no saying but the rebel
cavalry may return and amuse themselves by a pursuit. Then we drop in
to our previous slow gait, and calculate that we shall reach camp by
sunset.
There is a long bridge on this road crossing a stream, with the pretty
name of "The Holly Fork;" on 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 five o'clock, and we are two miles from camp. My horse has
been going almost uninterruptedly for ten hours, and I am promising him
a good bed of leaves and a long night's rest, when, through the trees,
come two troopers riding on a gallop. They pull up, and hand me a
letter from the colonel: "Captain (it says), your squadron is detailed
to guard the bridge at Holly Fork; you will take all proper measures
to defend it if attacked, and will remain there until relieved by some
other squadron."
"Did you see anything of my men?" I say to the messengers. "Yes; they
were saddling up, and will be along soon." I may as well keep on; they
may be bringing me a fresh horse, and then I can send this one back
by these men. In half an hour I find the man who leads has lead us on
to a wrong road. He tries a cross-cut, and the cross-cut leads to a
field. We must turn the ambulance round and retrace both errors. It
is vexatious in the extreme, to have this additional load put on my
willing horse after two such days' work and besides, the squadron may
have passed while we were wandering about here. I curb my impatience
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 own story--the squadron has gone by.
"Captain," says the doctor from the ambulance, "must you go back?"
"Yes, doctor, I suppose I must."
"Well, if you must, here is your haversack."
"Thank you, doctor; is there anything left in yours?"
"Yes; some hard biscuit and dry beef. I will put them in for you." And
the doctor transfers them from his haversack to mine.
"Now, Bischoff, roll up the buffalo; quick's the word; we must go back
to within seven miles of Paris, and the sun is setting."
"Good-bye, captain," calls the doctor as I start. "I hope you won't be
hurt to-night."
"I hope not, doctor; good-bye. And now, Bischoff, for the squadron and
Holly Fork."
VI.
THE HOLLY FORK.
We rode rapidly along the wooded ridges. The fading daylight told us
that the sun had set behind his cloudy screen, and when we reached
the main road, there was light enough to show dimly the trail turning
toward Paris. In this cavalry service, one becomes so attached to his
constant companions by day and by night, that you must forgive me for
describing mine. Bischoff's horse is a beautiful sorrel blood, high
spirited, yet quiet and gentle as a lamb. My own horse is a prisoner
from Fort Donelson. On the eventful Sunday morning, I found him tied in
a yard, near where General Floyd took to his boat, and have no doubt
he was left by the runaway part of the garrison. At first I was rather
disposed not to buy him from the government, and it was more the desire
to retain a trophy of Fort Donelson, than his merits, that decided
the question. He is a fine Kentucky blood, but had too many Southern
traits--snorting when there was nothing to snort at, quiet when alone,
but full of fuss when anybody was by, and, once, seceding from the
smooth and travelled way, only to be brought back by a good thrashing,
which, indeed, was the basis of our good understanding. But in this
Paris journey, his Arabian blood atoned for his Southern education. It
was refreshing to feel these high bred horses rousing themselves for
their new march, as though it were the beginning of a new day, breaking
into a gallop wherever the road allowed, and dashing along without word
or spur as though just out of the stable.
On the summit of a long hill is a farm house, and as we thus approached
it on a gallop, I saw a group of men, and rows of cavalry horses tied
to the fences. For a moment I thought my pursuit was over, but a closer
glance through the dim twilight told me these were too few for the
squadron--it was the picket guard taking their last rest before going
out on their posts for the night. "Your men are about two miles ahead
of you, captain," said the officer of the picket, and we rode on. As we
descended the next hill, the last glimmer of daylight left us, and the
darkness of a gloomy, cloudy night shrouded the road. I had been riding
rapidly while the daylight lasted, but so had the squadron. Ordinarily,
there would have been a halt before this, to re-adjust saddles and
examine pistols, but it was now evident that while I was making every
exertion to overtake them, they were making every exertion to meet me.
I knew their orders must have been to proceed till they should meet me,
and I could imagine that they supposed I was alone at the bridge, and
were urging their horses to my relief. "Confound that blockhead," I
was inclined to mutter; but there was no help for his blunder, save to
hurry on.
A couple of miles beyond the picket guard, the road descends into a
dreary swamp. It seems too dreary for any creature to live in; bushes
and trees have died, and the tall, spectral trunks stand, like ghosts
of a departed forest. Deep holes and fallen trees had made the crossing
no easy task in daytime, and I now approached it with some misgivings,
and many wishes that we were well over.