standing. We halt, and two men dismount, and, in the shadow of a tree,
take down the high rail fence. The column, turning in, passes up a corn
row to the other side of the field; the two men, remaining, carefully
replace the fence. The shadow of the tree hides our trail, and we
have left no other sign behind us. On the other side of the field is
a little basin, unploughed and grass-covered, wherein our horses are
picketed. As I ride around it, I find they are completely hidden away;
it is perfect for our purpose. The sentinels stand on the rising ground
behind us, and in the clear moonlight, see over a wide expanse of
fields; and here we lie down and securely sleep.
It is three in the morning, and the men have left their cavalry
couches, and are silently rolling their blankets and saddling their
horses. We leave the field as we entered it, replacing the fence and
turning toward Buena Vista. How surprised the owner will be when,
harvesting his corn, he stumbles on the traces of our mysterious
bivouac. The country still sleeps in the chill, silent moonlight, and
very chilly and silent are we; but by and by the day breaks, and, as
the sun rises, we descend into the dark, damp valley of the Obion. The
direction of our march is reversed--so is the hour, and so are all the
circumstances, yet we feel awed by the memories of last May. Every
fallen tree or muddy hollow has a tale--here this man's horse was shot,
here another was wounded, and here a third narrowly escaped. On the
bank of this little stream, the man who leads was taken prisoner; over
it Tennessee made an unequalled jump; in this mud hole, five horses
went down, and further on, near the bridge, our major fell. Looking at
it calmly and critically, it seems even worse than it did then, and I
wonder how one of us escaped.
We reach the bridge; the thickened foliage leaves the valley less
open, yet I can, in fancy, see again that long column bearing down
upon us. What a strong position it is! how easily we could have held
it, had we been armed like the enemy! And here are the house and the
barn-yard, and Bischoff shows us the very place where the little black
horse made his famous leap; and Mr. Lockridge comes out and points to
some graves, and his wife repeats some dying words. They beg us to
stay to breakfast, and say that though they suffered last spring, they
have been blessed with an abundant harvest; but we do not feel like
breakfasting there now, and pass on to the houses where the flags were
waved, and where the welcome is worthy of the flag.
A long day has this been for us--sultry and hot--the streams dried
up--the wells a hundred feet deep--and our horses have suffered much.
We are still seven miles from Como, when two mounted men are seen
behind us. "Bring those men in, sergeant." The sergeant wheels about
and soon returns with them.
"I must trouble you to ride with us awhile, gentlemen," I say; "I wish
to talk with you."
"We are going to Cottage Grove," says one of the men; "it is seven
miles off, and we have ridden a long distance to-day: I hope you won't
take us far."
"I will see about it," I say; and we ride on.
One--two--three miles; it is no joke to the men, they plead their
loyalty, and give their names and proffer their honor. The answer they
get is, "I am sorry for you--I know it's hard; but I cannot let you go."
"We've been up to old-man Gibbs', near Dresden."
"A tall dark man, who sometimes rides a white mule?"
"No, that's his son. Now you know the kind of folks we've been among,
maybe you'll let us go."
"I am sorry for you--I know it's hard; but I cannot let you go."
Four--five--six miles, and they ask:
"Do you mean to take us to Como?"
"Yes."
"When we get there, will you let us go?"
"No."
"It's further from Como than from here; our horses are tired, and our
folks will be frightened."
"I am sorry for you--I know it is hard; but I cannot let you go."
"Mr. Hurt knows us, and will vouch for us."
"Well, I will see Mr. Hurt."
Como is reached at last. Our secession friend's barnyards are still
standing, and half the men halt there; this time to trouble him for
supper as well as forage. With the rest I continue down the road that I
walked up so anxiously when I was last here. I dismount and walk to the
steps, where stands Mrs. Hurt. We come from a guerrilla country, and
in the twilight she does not recognize me. I can see in her frightened
look and agitated manner, that she thinks we are some of her Southern
brethren. I therefore hasten to announce myself by saying, "How are
you, Mrs. Hurt? I have come back for that tea you were getting for me
last spring." A very joyful meeting it is; and Mr. Hurt is called, and
we shake hands as though we had been lifelong friends, and say to each
other that we can hardly believe our acquaintance was but of the part
of a single day. Trouble and danger bring people very quickly close
together.
But the two men all this while have been sitting on their horses at the
gate, and now they cough loudly.
"Come here," I say to Mr. Hurt, "and tell me if you know these men, and
if they are trustworthy."
We walk to the gate, and Mr. Hurt bursts into a loud laugh. "Why," he
says, "you have arrested the only two Union men there are in Cottage
Grove!"
I am vexed, but I cannot help laughing; and the men are vexed, but
they, after a minute, laugh too.
"Don't tell it up there," says Mr. Hurt, "or the secesh will laugh at
you all your lives;" and then we shake hands, and they ride away.
I need not tell you that this time we stayed to tea; nor how we talked
over the events of the former visit; and how everybody remembered where
everybody sat, and what everybody did, and every word that everybody
said. But it is time to go, and though Mr. Hurt will not hear of it, we
saddle up, and bidding them many good-byes, resume our march.
Last spring when we crossed the Tennessee, two men, named Anderson
and Faris, came into camp as refugees from Paris. When I was in Paris
with the flag, some one came behind me and said, in a whisper, "Tell
Anderson and Faris not to come back!" As we guarded the Holly Fork next
day, Anderson and Faris appeared. I stopped them, not on their account,
but for the reason that I would not let _anybody_ pass; and afterward
they came down and stayed chiefly in camp. On our expedition to the
Obion, Faris had been our guide. He was taken, a court-martial was
held, at which a neighbor of his--one Captain Mitchell--was the chief
manager and witness; and Faris was sentenced as a spy, and hung. He met
his death bravely, writing a calm and heroic letter to his wife upon
his coffin.
We have all wanted to catch Master Mitchell; and now, on our way from
Mr. Hurt's, I accidentally learn that last evening he came into Paris.
We have been on the road since three this morning, and it is eleven
now; but this opportunity shall not be lost, though he is a cunning
fellow, who probably will not stay two nights in the same place. And
now we halt at the house of an old Unionist, who bears a striking
resemblance to General Scott, and whose fine old house is surrounded
and overshadowed by a noble grove, equal to our Battery in its better
days.
"Call me at half-past one," I say to the corporal of the guard; "and
relieve guard in an hour."
"Half-past one, captain," says the corporal.
"Call up the men."
The men turn out promptly after their two hours' sleep.
"The moon seems pretty much in the same place," says one.
"No wonder," answers another, "it's only half-past one."
Nothing more is said, and no surprise expressed. If you could hear
them, you would think that going to bed at eleven and rising at
half-past one is their usual course.
We pass quietly out of the beautiful grove, and wend our way toward
Paris. Paris is not altogether safe; Captain Mitchell's visit may have
been the forerunner of a guerrilla raid. At three in the morning we
have passed Mrs. Ayres', and are on the outskirts of the town. The men
are informed of the object of the movement, and are burning with the
desire of taking him. There is no need of the order, "If he attempts to
escape, shoot him, cut him down, give him no quarter." Those who know
the house form a party to surround it, and the rest a reserve to look
at the court-house square and see if there be any guerrillas there. We
descend to the little stream that bounds Paris; we climb the hill, and
enter its empty streets. The men are riding by file, and intent as I am
on my object, I am struck with the strange, spectral appearance of this
long line of horsemen slowly winding through the silent town.
We approach the house, and the sergeant who has charge of the party
dismounts half his men; they fasten their horses, and climb the fence.
There is an instant's exciting pause, and then the men on foot rush to
the back of the house, while the others gallop to the front; the house
is surrounded. I dismount and enter the gate, and as I do so the front
door opens, and a woman and two or three girls come out.
"Is Captain Mitchell in this house?" I say to the woman, whom I
naturally take to be his wife.
"No, sir."
"When did he leave it?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Is this Mrs. Mitchell?"
"No, sir. My name is Mrs. ----. I don't live here."
He has either escaped, I think, or is still in the house, and this
party has been sitting up with him; so I say, somewhat sarcastically:
"Are you ladies in the habit of being up till three in the morning?"
"No, sir. To-night we are sitting up with a sick person."
"How sick?" I say, not half believing the reply.
There is a young girl of fifteen standing beside the woman, who has
earnestly watched me, and she answers my question:
"She is my sister," she says in a trembling voice--"she is my sister,
and she is dying."
"It is so," says the woman. "The doctor says she is in the last stages
of diphtheria, and can live but a few hours. Captain Mitchell came back
because he heard she was dying. If you don't believe me, you can come
in and look for yourself."
"No," I answer, "if this family is in such affliction, we will be the
last persons to intrude. I will withdraw the most of my men; and you,
my girl, may go back to your sister, and feel assured that no one
shall disturb you during the remainder of the night."
They seem surprised, and, thanking me, go in. I post a man at each
corner of the house, and the others go back to bivouac in the
court-house square. I am much perplexed what to do. It shall not be
said that we searched a house while a girl was dying, and yet it may
be a trick, and he within. Walking up and down upon the court-house
steps, I think the matter over, and determine on this course: There is
a physician attending this girl, and there is another here in whom I
can implicitly trust. At sunrise I have routed these two gentlemen out,
and marched them down to the house. I then send for Mrs. Mitchell. She
comes out, pale from night-watching, and looks with no friendly eye on
the pursuers of her husband and the disturbers of her child.
"Captain Mitchell is not here," she says calmly. "He took leave of his
daughter, and went away yesterday. She has only an hour or two to live."
"I don't dispute your word, Mrs. Mitchell; I feel for you in your
affliction, and know how harsh and unkind my actions must seem; but it
is my duty to search this house. Yet I will do all I can for you. I
will keep my guards on the outside; or I will let Dr. Matheson go with
your physician, and if they report to me that your daughter is as ill
as you say, then I will let them make the search."
"I don't object to this, sir; it will not frighten my daughter."
The two doctors go in, and Mrs. Mitchell continues standing beside me
on the piazza.
"You have a hard lot," I say; "your husband away at such a time--near
you, and yet unable to return."
"Yes, a very hard lot," she answers with a sigh.
The two doctors come out, and Dr. Matheson says:
"She is nearly gone; it is diphtheria--the last stage."
"Then search the house, gentlemen, thoroughly, from top to bottom, in
every room and closet; examine every bed and corner."
They come out again, and report that he is not in the house. The guards
return their sabres and march away; and Mrs. Mitchell, to my surprise,
holds out her hand and says, "I don't blame you, sir, for what you've
done; I wish all others had treated us as kindly."
Much as I desired to arrest him, I confess that I am greatly relieved.
Arresting a father at the bedside of his dying daughter would mar the
pleasant memories of my last scout in Tennessee.
* * * * *
I am gliding down the beautiful river, its crystal waters sparkle
in the sun; and Fort Henry is lessening on my sight: the tall hills
opposite sink down, the flag-staff and the waving flag alone are left.
Now, farewell, Tennessee!
_APPENDIX._
The following interesting letters, which are taken from leading New
York newspapers, are now added to the 3d edition of this work. They
form so unusual a testimonial from military officers, and also from the
Union men of the South, of the truthfulness and value of the book, both
as a sketch of war scenes, drawn from a military point of view, and as
a reliable account of the Union sentiment which secretly prevailed at
the South, that the Executive Committee have deemed them a desirable
appendix to the foregoing pages.
AN INTERESTING INCIDENT.
_Editor of the_ --------.
The re-publication of JUDGE NOTT'S "Sketches of the War,"
recalls an incident, connected with one of those unfaltering
Unionists of Tennessee, which I trust will prove interesting to
your loyal readers.
In the month of Oct., 1863, when on a scouting expedition,
after Faulkner, which left Union City, under the command of the
celebrated Captain Frank Moore, of the 2d Illinois Cavalry, we
passed through Como. It was after noon, and I, with my two
companies of the 4th Mo. Cavalry, was ordered to "turn in" and
feed, at a house, about a quarter of a mile out of town, where
there seemed to be plenty of forage and "shoats." After seeing
my command properly disposed, I stationed a guard at the house,
and entered the gate. The lady of the house met me on the porch
and invited me in. I observed to her, after entering, that I was
obliged to stop to feed my command, as they were very tired and
hungry, and asked if she could prepare a meal for some half dozen
officers. She assented, and immediately went to the kitchen to
give the necessary directions. When she returned, I inquired:
"Is your husband at home?"
"No, sir. He is absent, looking for his stock."
I was then convinced of what I expected at first, from her
frightened looks and distant manner, that her husband was in the
rebel army.
"What," I ventured to ask, "is your husband's name?"
"Hurt, sir."
"Hurt, Hurt," I repeated after her. "That name sounds familiar. I
have seen or heard it somewhere. Ah! now I remember. It was in a
little work written by Captain Nott, called 'Sketches of the War'."
"Indeed!" she exclaimed. "Did you know him?"
"Very well. I was his 2d Lieutenant in the 4th Mo. Cavalry, my
present regiment. We left New York for St. Louis, and entered
this regiment together, in August, 1861. Unfortunately, however,
we were soon separated; for Captain Nott and his company were
transferred to the 5th Iowa Cavalry, and I have not seen him
since. It was a bitter disappointment to me, and I have never
fairly got over it."
"Then you are really Union soldiers? I'm sure you are."
"How could you doubt it?" I asked. "You see we wear the United
States uniform."
"That is not always conclusive, Captain. It was only the other
day, that a force of rebel cavalry, disguised in blue coats,
surprised and routed a detachment of the 7th Tennessee Cavalry,
in this very place. I never heard such horrid yelling in my life.
They acted like demons. Since then, we are obliged to be very
cautious."
Here Mrs. Hurt excused herself, and, stepping to the door,
directed Tom to call his master. Returning, she continued:
"I must apologize, Captain, for deceiving you as to my husband's
whereabouts. You see the difficulties of our situation. He will
be here presently. His stock usually stray no farther than the
nearest corn-field."
Smiling at her explanation of what at first looked to me very
much like a _white_ lie, I observed, that I fully appreciated the
dangers attending life in a country raided over alternately by
each of two hostile parties; and that I well understood why, at
first, I believed myself in a "secesh" house.
"I presume," I continued, "you have not seen Captain Nott's little
book, describing his visit here, and his adventures in these
parts?"
"Oh, yes. And what is more, it is in a safe place. We hide it
away, for fear it might get soiled."
She undoubtedly knew it would not be quite safe to let the
"Johnnies" find it.
Mr. Hurt now appeared, just as we were sitting down to dinner.
Several of my officers had come in.
"Husband, these are the friends of Captain Nott. I have explained
your absence."
"I am delighted to see you, gentlemen; tell me all about the
Captain. We have entirely lost track of him."
"The last news we had of him, he was a prisoner at Camp Ford,
Texas. He was Colonel of the 176th New York Infantry. There is a
rumor that he died in prison, but we do not credit it."
"I hope it is only a rumor. I never met a man, in my whole life,
for whom I formed so strong an attachment. And if ever I find out
where he is, I will visit him, if it takes me to China. I never
saw an officer who had such remarkable control over his men. At
the same time they seemed to idolize him."
We continued to chat till dinner was over, when Mrs. Hurt
produced a copy of "Sketches," which had been sent by the author.
"Nothing," she said, "would induce us to part with it."
The second edition of this charming little work, beautifully
bound, and appropriately embellished with cavalry insignia, has
just been issued from the Press. Judged by its predecessor, which
has long since been exhausted, I have no doubt but this edition
will meet a cordial welcome wherever real merit is recognized and
rewarded. To facilitate in some degree its circulation, I desire
to say something in its behalf: in the first place, because of
my attachment to the author, under whom I entered the service;
in the second place, because the work is a very deserving one;
and thirdly, because it is published for the exclusive benefit of
disabled soldiers.
Compiled from a series of letters originally written to the pupils
of Ward School 44, of this city, of which the author was formerly
a trustee, it might be inferred that the style and subject-matter
would be exclusively adapted to the tastes and comprehension of
children. The fact is otherwise. The author, as he states in the
preface, has "carefully avoided that 'baby talk' and paltriness
of subject," so common in works for juveniles, and has given
"just such incidents and topics, as he would have chosen for
their fathers and mothers." To the generality of adult readers,
I venture the assertion, few works of romance will be found more
absorbingly interesting. For myself, I freely say, that not only
was I intensely interested; but, accustomed as I was, to all
the details of cavalry service, I learned much from this little
volume, which could not be found in "Tactics" or "Regulations." It
is an excellent work for officers to read, both for amusement and
information.
Beside the exceeding attractiveness of the story, the scholar
is fascinated by the dignity and purity of the composition--the
simplicity of the style, and the surpassing clearness, naturalness
and minuteness, which mark the book throughout. Nothing seems
to have escaped the observation of the author; and whatever he
observed, he remembered. The smallest details are garnered, and
made to contribute to the interest of the narrative. One of the
prominent features of the work is, that most of the incidents,
thrilling in themselves, are put in the colloquial form, thus
giving them a directness and vivacity, which is lost in the
third-person style. But, perhaps, the distinguishing charm lies in
the fact, that the author has stamped himself upon his work. Every
page illustrates the nobleness and real goodness of heart, which
ever characterized his actions.
OSCAR P. HOWE,
Captain 4th Mo. Cavalry.
_From the New York Tribune._
A new edition of "Sketches of the War," by Charles C. Nott,
is published by A. D. F. Randolph, for the exclusive benefit
of disabled soldiers, in the expectation of opening for them
a profitable field of employment. The volume was originally
written in the form of letters to the pupils of one of the public
schools in this city, but the spirited and attractive character
of its contents, as well as fidelity of its descriptions, have
recommended it to a far wider circle of readers, and given it an
extensive popularity. The new edition will be eagerly welcomed,
both for its own merits and the benevolent purpose to which it is
devoted.
The following interesting letter is from Colonel George E. Waring, of
this city, late commander of the Fourth Missouri Cavalry:
STAMFORD, CONN., Feb. 23, 1865.
MY DEAR HANSON:--I send you with this a copy of "War
Sketches," which were written by Colonel Nott, who was Captain in
our regiment before your time, and with the tradition of whose
good qualities you are familiar. It will be especially interesting
to you, as recalling the scenes of our jolly rough-riding in
Western Kentucky and Tennessee.
Do you remember (when we took our brigade from Clinton, and
started on that wild-goose chase after Faulkner) how we went into
camp on the west fork of Clark's River, with our head-quarters in
a retired nook in the bush, only large enough to hold our little
party? and, how there came to us there, a Mr. Wade, a Mr. Chunn,
and a Mr. Magness, whose statements, that they were Unionists, we
doubted, until they told us of their assistance to Captain Nott?
how we trusted them then; and how faithful we found them? All of
this pleasant summer campaign comes back to me--as it will to
you--in reading the "Sketches." And your mind will run on, as mine
does, to our entrance into Murray, the next day, and the Sunday
dinner with the good old fox-hunting Mr. Guthrie; (the rebels
burnt his house down for that hospitality;) and our "secesh"
visitors in the camp below Conyersville, with their peach-brandy
and honey; and the preparation for a night attack on the enemy at
Paris; and how that promising scheme was knocked on the head by a
stupid order from our nervous old general, (a hundred miles away,)
to turn immediately back, and leave our ripe fruit unplucked; how
Faulkner took courage from our movement, and broke up our game
of corn-poker on the Buffalo robe, in the next camp on the back
track; and how we mounted and scoured the country, and couldn't
find the party which had attacked us--only heard of them going
toward Paris again?
Read the account of the entrance into Paris, (pages 71 and 72,)
and see if it does not take you back to our entering it, a year
and more ago; and to our night at Dr. Matherson's brick house, at
the head of the street, where we went for good quarters, thinking
him a rebel, and wishing him out of our room before we settled
ourselves for the evening, until he asked us if we knew Captain
Nott, and shewed us that he knew, and was trusted by him; and what
a cozy evening we passed with them, in spite of the bitter cold
weather? We knew we were with a friend, and he did not spare his
wood-pile in entertaining us.
How graphic is the description of the freezing fast to the
ground of the citizens, when they first see us coming into a
town (making it always look like Sunday.) Read, too, of the
Obion bottom--which was less muddy, but not more pleasant, to
Captain Nott than to us--and of the wild confusion of single-rank
cavalry when surprised; and of Bischoff's holding the Captain's
stirrup under fire;--how like Hover, and the "_Vierte Missouri_,"
that!--and of Bischoff's gamey little black horse, bringing him
through a tight place, just as Miss Pussy has done for you.
And the skirmish, over the piano, with Miss Ayres; how like it is
to what I've so often seen from you and the other young ones of
the staff.
It seems at first rather odd that a book originally written
for school-girls, should be so exactly the book which is most
interesting to men--even to those who have served--but it is
precisely those little details, which one would think of writing
only for children, which give to all the clearest idea of the
realities of military life, and which best recall the daily
pleasures, trials and anxieties of a campaign, when graver events
have dimmed our recollection of them.