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.
 
[Pg 155]
 
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."
 
[Pg 156]
 
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[Pg 157] 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[Pg 158] 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:
 
[Pg 159]
 
"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[Pg 160] 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[Pg 161] 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."
 
[Pg 162]
 
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[Pg 163] 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,[Pg 164] 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 ............