reached before the threatening danger 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 was 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
difficulty, helped me off with my soldier's blouse, and on with it; so
that to any person in a neighboring house or field we 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 nasty, 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 displayed 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 spectacles 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 my uniform under
the butternut 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 consultation 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 attack, 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 a 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."
"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 accustomed to. Besides, I am dusty and dirty,
and shall certainly spoil your bed clothes."
"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."
"I'm really sorry," said Mr. Derringer, "that I've 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 off 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-bye, 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. Unhappy
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 recent 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 increased. The
crowd of refugees grew greater--the 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?" I asked of an officer who was writing.
"I am the adjutant, sir," he answered, without looking 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 came 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 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-bye
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 Sunday 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.
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 Tennessee 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 neighborhood,
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 down 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 approaching 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."
No 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
further 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 it 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 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."
"No, 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 discharged 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?"
"No, 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 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?"
"I heard there would be an officer 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 commanding officer, 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:
"So you are going to Boydsville, are you?"
"Yes," I answer, "we're going that way. Good night." And we move off at
a trot, upon the Boydsville road.
It is three o'clock in the morning, and we are bivouacked 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 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 manner 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. Before
long, however, there is another burst of exclamations, 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 passing 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 seeking is still
before us, and even his faith in his memory 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 (wherever 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?"
"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."
"What! 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."
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 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 already 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 destination 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 in
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 column; I order "_trot_," "_trot 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 rapidly 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.
Nothing 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 inexplicable 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 bed time is passed,
and the videttes from the front "come in." The orders are given, "Be
silent;" "Hold your sabres so that they 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? No, '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 successful. "It was
done first rate," whispers the sergeant behind me; "we got ahead of the
dogs that time."