bridge and plunging into the submerged road, without abating his
speed. Here Bischoff fell behind. 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 re-crossed the invisible road, avoiding
its dangers, as it seemed to me, by precisely 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 mishaps, 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 from the house beyond. I knew then where my men were. At the
same time, Tennessee, who had been disposed 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 me 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!_" No sound came from the silent
column, save the trampling 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, stealing 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
minutes' 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 Tennesseans it is early to bed and early
to rise (though truth compels me to add, they 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 observed the shutters upon
the shops. It puzzled me at first; then I whispered to the sergeant,
"Is this Sunday?" and he answered, "I really believe it is." This was
indeed Sunday evening! and yet I could hardly bring myself to believe
that at the same hour, and while we were passing these lightless
houses, whose undisturbed inmates slept, unconscious that their dreaded
enemies were passing before their doors, in New 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 earned, upon a long and narrow
causeway, to the bridge. A second causeway leads to the opposite
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 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 tunnel 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 trampling on the bridge, were beating to arms. Thinking it would
not do to crowd more troops on the narrow causeway 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
I thought I might hereafter believe the stories often told of their
frightening armies into a retreat. But above them came, from different
points, five or six hideous 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 informed 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 deserted. A fire was 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 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 observed in the
newspapers any narrative or statement which explains these details to
friends at home. Perhaps 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 guard, 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 consist 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, selecting a place where they can see without being seen. 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 second.
After visiting the videttes, I agreed to relieve my lieutenant 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. "Nothing; 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,
sleeping 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 down 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 October, and was struck with the difference
which practice 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 apparently 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." Sitting 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
down, 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. Relieving 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. How
surprised they 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 indifference 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 first. "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 persons on the road, so that
no information might be carried to the enemy. I explored the banks of
the brook near us, to make sure that no party could cross and attack
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 officer arrived from camp. Another 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 saddle up," were the orders; and soon we were
marching 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 "Readers" 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 one who succeeded and
the many who failed--of disconcerted 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 Conyersville, 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 sergeant reports all ready. The men are
drawn up in line; they "count off by fours;" the order is given, "by
two's 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 New 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 woods and many Northern birds, who seemed sad and songless, and
behaved like invalids passing the winter at the South. The meadow lark
spread her wings languidly, and the robins sat listless on the apple
trees, as though they were home-sick, and, like us, longed to fly back
to their Northern 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 wilds, are many farms and
houses, whose owners love seclusion, and hide themselves from each
other by a veil of intervening forest.
In one of these there lives an elderly man named Patterson. When first
by accident we rode past his door, one of the men said "He looks more
like a Union man than any one we have seen yet;" and we soon learnt
that he was a Philadelphian, who had wandered to Tennessee many years
ago for health: he had married here, settled and become a Tennessean.
His clothes are the yellowish, brownish homespun, which we all call
"butternut;" and his house has the strange opening through the centre,
so common here. I cannot quite determine whether these Tennessee houses
consist of two houses hitched together by "the roof o'erhead" and the
floor beneath, or of one long house, with a big hole cut through the
middle. They are not bad in warm weather, for there is a breeze blowing
through this open part, and in it the family sit and work. The stone
chimney runs up the outside of the house, and gourd dippers are hung
around the door.
I like these gourd dippers much--the water tastes better from them than
from anything else, and the sight of one makes me thirsty. We therefore
stop to see Mr. Patterson, and get a drink; the pail of fresh water
is quickly carried from the spring, and the gourd dippers are eagerly
seized by the men.
Some miles from Mr. Patterson, we stop to feed. It's a bleak house,
and looks as though the owner had been long away. Two small boys
appear--very frightened and very civil.
"Where is your father, my boy?" I ask of the elder.
"In the army, sir."
"The Southern army?"
"Yes, sir."
"And your mother?"
"She's gone up to grandfather's."
"Well, my boy, I shall have to take some of your corn for our horses."
"Oh! I don't care nothin' about the corn, if yuh wunt pester us."
We all laugh at this, and assure him he shan't be pestered. The horses
are unbridled, picketed to the fence, and fed; and the men sit on the
sunny side of the road and eat their dinner. We take an hour's rest
and then remount. As we come in sight of a rather better looking house
than usual, we see a couple of its young ladies in the garden, men
ploughing in the field, and women working in the yard. Suddenly there's
a great commotion. The two young ladies turn and fly to the house; the
men in the field drop their ploughs and run to the house; the women
in the yard follow to the house. We ask, what can the matter be; it
looks as though a thunder storm had burst on them, and they have run
to the house to keep dry. But as we draw nearer, we see them anxiously
peering through doors and windows at us. "There's a chance for you,
W----, to be polite; ride up and ask them, if they've 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 approaches
the house, and laugh as we observe the inmates rapidly retire from
door and windows. Then one contraband comes bravely out, to whom the
lieutenant appears to be talking; and then reappear the men, the women,
five or six dogs, and the two young ladies. The lieutenant soon rejoins
us, laughing; we were the first United States soldiers they had seen,
and they didn't know but we would burn the house and kill them; they
had run to the house, because it was "nat'ral," and they didn't know
where else to run.
But evening approaches, and I must choose a camping ground for the
night. On our left, half a mile back from the road, I can see a large
house, surrounded with many stacks and corn-cribs. It belongs to Major
Thornton, who is spoken of as a very rich man, and by no means a loyal
one. He has not yet had the pleasure of entertaining soldiers, and I
determine to stop with him for the night. But do not suppose that I
shall halt now while the sun is up, and messengers can ride off and
tell King's cavalry that we are here. Oh, no! we shall make a long
circuit, and steal back here three or four hours from now--when people
in the adjoining houses have gone to bed, and the darkness hides our
movements and our sleeping-place.
An hour or two brings us to Conyersville. It is indeed hidden from us
by some woods, but for half an 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." "Form fours." "Draw sabre." In a minute we shall be in a
fight, or--jogging along as quietly as before. We reach the top of a
little hill, and on another road before us are moving the dust and
figures of a body of cavalry--but through it are seen the blue jackets
and sabres of our troops, and in another moment we recognize them as
our own men. I hold a short conference with the captain, and then we
ride into Conyersville.
Conyersville is "not much of a place," the men say; "there is a tavern,
and a store, and a blacksmith shop, and half a dozen houses; and the
folks are all secesh." Yet weeks in the woods give one a craving for a
city; so we stop at Conyersville a little while, all the while knowing
there is nothing to see. We then turn to the left, and go some miles
down the Paris road. We pass a road that runs back to Major Thornton's,
partly because it is too early to go there, partly to the better
mislead any one who might follow us. At last, as it grows dark, we
come to a second road, which turns off at a 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, indeed, that we can hardly
find the major's, and even ride a little way past the gate. At length
we turn in, and the lieutenants ride on to wake the people up and
inform them that we are coming. Being rather grander people than usual,
they have not gone to bed. Now, walking into a man's house and taking
possession of it is not an agreeable task. At home, it seemed so; but
when you come face to face with the man, and more especially with
the man's wife and children, the duty becomes unpleasant. It is done
somewhat in this way: One of the lieutenants is standing by the garden
gate, with a stout man beside him, and as I ride up, he says, "This is
Major Thornton." "I am sorry to trouble you, Major Thornton, but I must
stay here to-night, and shall have to take forage for sixty horses,
and use your kitchen for my men to cook their supper. Where would you
prefer my putting the horses?" The major says he has a large barn yard;
that will suit him, if it will suit us. "Very well, sir, if you will
send some of your men to show us and give out the forage, I will see
that none is wasted."
The men wheel into the yard, and a couple of contrabands, very loyal
and cheerful, assist us to the major's oats. They enjoy feeding the
United States horses at the major's expense immensely, and insist on
throwing down from the stack a dozen more sheaves than we want. "It ull
do them ere hosses of yourn so much good--they don't get oats every
day--oats mighty scarce in this country; and the major, he's nothin'
but a secesher," they say.