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 corn stalks and make a bed." Meanwhile
I have a private talk with one of the contrabands, 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 niggers.
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 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.
Beside Mrs. Thornton, there sits a good natured little daughter, with
light hair and blue eyes, and the pretty name of Nelly. Miss Nelly
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 pictures of knights on
horseback and ladies in swoons, all looking so familiar, that I almost
expect to hear a newsboy run round the corner, shouting "Ledger! New
York 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 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. Nothing, 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 Nelly is up to see us off,
and her pleasant little face smiles and bows happily from the piazza.
Mrs. 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 chimney, from which the smoke is rising briskly.
These Tennessean 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 will 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 breakfast. The men whose turn it is for picket, ride
on a mile or two down the road, the others dismount. The two who
act as cooks take possession of a little out-kitchen, and proceed to
fry the bacon and boil the coffee. 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 barn yard, 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 breakfast, 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 appearance 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 furthest from me dived down in her
pocket, and, after rummaging there a minute, brought up--
"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 lighting 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 way and spit before she answers. The first time we witnessed this
interesting 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 tobacco?" 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 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_?" Relations, 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
Bischoff 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 contraband 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.
"No, 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."
"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?"
"No, 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 cleaning their horses. With one of the
sergeants, I stroll out to the road. We cross it and walk a few yards,
to get a view of some fields beyond. As we are looking 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 galloping--and there's more
than one too."
We both spring for the gate.
"Shall I order the men to fall in?" asks the sergeant.
"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 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, sah; 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, sah; they likes it. Why, 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 inconsistencies 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; 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?"
"No, 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."
Now, 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 everybody, and everybody had been very polite to us, and
none more so than these visitors. When we left, I complacently 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_!"
There's a compliment for us, thinks I. I must tell the doctor of
that--and how _favorably we impressed them_!
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 beside them. The pickets have gone out,
and the sentinel moves slowly backward and forward near the gate. I
walk down 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 concealed from
everybody but the commanding officer and the officers of the day and
of the guard. When any person is to be sent through the lines, one of
these officers may give him the countersign, and it only will enable
him to pass. If I had not had the countersign, it would 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 William 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 further
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 look out, 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 sergeant is rousing the
next relief.
"Walter," I say 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 cheerfulness, "I'll 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.
VIII.
A SURPRISE.
A fairer 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 beneath 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 complete 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 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. "What can it
be? something has happened." "No, nothing has happened; 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." "I'm sure there won't." A silence--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.
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 Orleans." 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 follow 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, 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 from camp we halted at a sparkling brook to adjust saddles
and water horses. The squadron 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?"