Fred was right in his surmise that Calhoun had been acting the part of a spy. He had been playing a very dangerous game, and had been successful. Disguised as a country boy, he had boldly entered Columbia, and in a great measure had fathomed the plans of General Thomas. It was a matter of common report that as soon as the army could be concentrated, General Zollicoffer would be attacked. Calhoun had made a careful estimate of the strength of Thomas' army, and when met by Fred he was taking an observation of his order of march, and how long it would take the rear brigade to reinforce the advance brigade, if it should be attacked.

The sudden meeting with Fred was a surprise to him. But when he heard Fred's voice he knew his life was in no danger; yet he dare not tarry, even for a moment, and so escaped as we have seen.

No sooner was he out of sight of Fred than he checked his horse. "That was a lucky escape," he said to himself. "If I had to meet any one, it was fortunate I met Fred. Poor fellow! I wonder what he thought of me! I would so much like to have a talk with him, but it would have been madness to have stopped, and then it would have placed him in a very awkward predicament. Selim, old boy," continued he, patting his horse's neck, "we have work yet before us; we must see where General Thomas camps."

It was early on the morning of January 18th that Calhoun rode into the Confederate camp at Beech Grove. Without changing his mud-bespattered garments, he at once sought the quarters of Major-General G. B. Crittenden, who had been placed in chief command of the army.

"Ah, Lieutenant," exclaimed the general, "I am glad to see you. I have been thinking of you, and blaming myself for permitting you to go on your hazardous adventure. He who acts as a spy takes his life in his hands."

"It is an old saying that 'all is well that ends well,'" Calhoun answered, smiling. "You ought to have seen what a splendid country bumpkin I made; and I have succeeded beyond my most sanguine expectations. I have very important news for you, General. General Thomas is now encamped at Logan's Cross Roads, only ten miles away. He will wait there for his rear brigade, and also for reinforcements from Somerset. He has only one brigade with him, numbering not much over 4,000 men."

Calhoun then went on and gave General Crittenden the full details of the strength of the Federal army, saying that he thought the rear brigade of Thomas' army could not reach Logan's Cross Roads for at least two days, and that owing to the height of water in Fishing Creek he believed it impossible for Thomas to receive reinforcements from Somerset.

"If these forces all combine, General," continued Calhoun, "they will so far outnumber us that it would be madness to risk a battle. To-morrow Thomas will be isolated; his force is inferior to yours. I believe he can be crushed."

"You think that your information as to numbers and position is absolutely correct, do you?" asked the general.

"I do, General," answered Calhoun. "If you attack General Thomas in the morning I am confident you will attack with a superior force."

"It is either that or a disastrous retreat," said the general, gravely. "I will call a council of my officers at once. I wish you to appear before them."

"As soon as I can get off some of this mud I will be ready," answered Calhoun.

The council was called, and General Crittenden laid the facts before his officers. Calhoun was asked a great many questions, to all of which he gave full and sufficient answers. The council, without a dissenting voice, voted to attack Thomas the next morning.

It was nearly midnight when the Confederates marched out of their entrenchments, General Zollicoffer's brigade having the advance. Calhoun acted as aid on the staff of General Crittenden. The distance, ten miles, made a fearful night march, considering the roads. Calhoun afterwards said that it was one of the worst marches he ever made. The night was dark and gloomy. A cold drizzling rain fell that chilled the soldiers to the very bone. Through the rain and the mud for hour after hour the brave men of the Confederacy toiled on, animated by the hope that they would soon meet and hurl back in inglorious defeat the men whom they considered ruthless invaders of their soil. It took nearly seven hours to march that ten miles, every step being taken through mud and water, sometimes nearly knee deep.

Just as the gray shadows in the east betokened the ushering in of the short January day, the crack! crack! of guns in front told that the Federal pickets had been alarmed. The sharp reports of those guns as they echoed back along the mud-stained ranks caused the weary soldier to forget his weariness. The cold was no longer felt, the excitement of the coming battle sent the blood tingling through the veins.

It is time to turn now to General Thomas and his little army that lay encamped at Logan's Cross Roads in the darkness and shadows of that gloomy night. Couriers had been sent back to hurry up the rear brigade; orders had been sent to General Schoepf to at once forward three regiments, but General Thomas well knew if he was attacked in the morning none of these reinforcements would reach him.

The general sat in his tent, listening to Fred giving an account of what had happened at Somerset during the three weeks he had been there. He was especially interested in the account Fred gave of his picket fight.

"That, Shackelford," said the general, "was strategy worthy of a much older head. Your little fight was also admirably managed."

"I had rather it had been against any one than my cousin," answered Fred.

"Such things cannot be avoided," answered Thomas, with a sigh. "This is an unhappy war. I am a Virginian, and must fight against those who are near and dear to me."

Fred did not answer; he was thinking of his father.

The general sat as if buried in deep thought for a moment, and then suddenly looking up, said:

"Shackelford, you know when we were going into camp this evening that you said you feared an attack in the morning."

"I am almost positive of it, General," was Fred's reply.

"Will you give me your reasons?"

"Because the enemy is well posted and must know that you mean to attack them when your forces are consolidated, and your army will be so strong they cannot hope to stand before it. I am also of the opinion that they are well informed of your isolated position here; that one of your brigades is two days' march in the rear, also that owing to the high stage of water in Fishing Creek it will be impossible for General Schoepf to reinforce you for a day or two. I also believe that the enemy has a fair estimate of your exact strength."

During this speech of Fred's the general listened intently, and then said: "You have a better idea of my actual position than I trust most of my officers have, but you said some things which need explaining. On what grounds do you base your belief that the enemy are so well acquainted with my situation and strength?"

"No positive proof, General, but an intuition which I cannot explain. But this impression is also based on more solid ground than intuition. Yesterday, just before I met your advance, I met a man in our uniform. When he saw me he jumped his horse over a fence and disappeared in a wood. I am almost certain he was a spy. To-day I caught a glimpse of that same man in the woods yonder on our right."

Thomas mused a moment, and then said: "If the Confederate general fully knows our situation and strength, he is foolish if he does not attack me. But if he does, I shall try and be ready for him."

The general then once more carefully examined his maps of the country, gave orders that a very strong picket should be posted, and that well in advance of the infantry pickets cavalry videttes should be placed, and that the utmost vigilance should be exercised.

Then turning to Fred, he said: "If your expectations are realized in the morning, you may act as one of my aids. And now, gentlemen," said he, turning to his staff, "for some sleep; we must be astir early in the morning."

In the gray light of the early morning, from away out in front, there came the faint report of rifles. Nearer and more rapid grew the firing. Early as it was, General Thomas and staff had had their breakfast, and every soldier was prepared.

General Manson, in command of the advance regiments, came galloping back to headquarters.

"General," he said, "we are attacked in force."

"Go back," replied General Thomas, without betraying any more excitement than if he were ordering his men out on review, "form your men in the most advantageous position, and hold the enemy until I can bring up the rest of the troops."

In a trice aids were galloping in every direction. Fred found enough to do. The fitful reports of guns in front had become a steady roll of musketry. The loud mouth of the cannon joined in, and the heavy reverberations rolled over field and through forest. In an incredibly short time every regiment was in motion towards where the heavy smoke of battle was already hanging over the field.

Of all the thousands, the general commanding seemed the most unconcerned. He leisurely mounted his horse and trotted toward the conflict. His eye swept the field, and as the regiments came up they were placed just where they were needed. His manner inspired every one who saw him with confidence.

To Fred the scene was inexpressibly grand. This, then, was a battle. The wild cheering of men, the steady roll of musketry, the deep bass of cannon, thrilled him with an excitement never felt before. The singing of the balls made strange music in his ears. Now and then a shell or solid shot would crash through the forest and shatter the trees as with a thunderbolt. Soon a thin line of men came staggering back, some holding up an arm streaming with blood, others hobbling along using their guns as crutches. A few, wild with fear, had thrown away their guns, and were rushing back, lost to shame, lost to honor, lost to everything but an insane desire to get out of that hell of fire.

Fred was a born soldier. At first there was a lump in the throat, as if the heart was trying to get away, a slight trembling of the limbs, a momentary desire to get out of danger, and then he was as cool and collected as if on parade. Through the storm of balls he rode, delivering his orders with a smiling face, and a word of cheer. General Thomas noticed the coolness of his aid, and congratulated him on his soldierly qualities.

On the left, in front of the Fourth Kentucky Regiment, the battle was being waged with obstinate fury. Colonel Fry, seeing Fred, rode up to him, and said: "Tell General Thomas I must have reinforcements at once; the enemy is flanking me."

Away went Fred to deliver the order.

"Say to Colonel Fry," said Thomas, "that I will at once forward the aid required. Until the reinforcements come, tell him to hold his position at all hazards."

The message was delivered. Fry compressed his lips, glanced along his line, saw the point of greatest danger, and quickly ordered two of his left companies to the right, leading them in person, Fred going with him.

An officer enveloped in a large gray coat suddenly rode out of the wood, and galloping up to them shouted: "For God's sake, stop firing! You are firing on your own men."

Just then two other officers rode up to the one in a gray cloak. Seeing Colonel Fry and Fred, they at once fired on them. Colonel Fry was slightly wounded, but Fred was untouched. As quick as thought both returned the fire. The officer at whom Fred fired reeled in his saddle, then straightened up and galloped to the rear. Colonel Fry fired at the officer in the gray cloak. He threw up his arms, and then plunged headlong to the ground.

The bullet from Colonel Fry's pistol had pierced the heart of General Zollicoffer.

The battle now raged along the entire line with great fury. The lowering clouds grew darker, and the pitiless rain, cold and icy, fell on the upturned faces of the dead. The cruel storm beat upon the wounded, and they shivered and moaned as their life's blood ebbed away. The smoke settled down over the field and hid the combatants from view, but through the gloom the flashes of the guns shone like fitful tongues of flame. Then the Federal line began to press forward, and soon the whole Confederate army was in full retreat.

The Battle now raged along the entire line with great fury.

It was at this time that Fred's attention was attracted to a young Confederate officer, who was trying to rally his men. Bravely did he strive to stay the panic, but suddenly Fred saw him falter, sway to and fro, and then fall. Once more did the Confederates try to rally under the leadership of a young mounted officer, but they were swept aside, and the battle was over.

Fred's first thought was for the young Confederate officer whom he saw fall while trying to rally his men. There was something about him that seemed familiar. Could it be Calhoun? Fred's heart stood still at the thought. Fred soon found the object of his search. He was lying on his side, his head resting on his left arm, his right hand still grasping his sword, a smile on his face. As Fred looked on the placid face of the dead, a groan burst from him, and the tears gushed from his eyes. With his handkerchief he wiped away the grime of battle, and there, in all his manly beauty, Bailie Peyton lay before him. Fred's thoughts flew back to that day at Gallatin. No more would those eloquent lips hold entranced a spellbound audience. No more would his fiery words stir the hearts of his countrymen, even as the wind stirs the leaves of the forest.

Tenderly did Fred have him carried back and laid by the side of his fallen chieftain. Both were given the honor due them. As soon as possible the remains of both were forwarded through the lines to Nashville.

It was not the city that Fred saw in August. Then it was wild and hilarious with joy, carried away with the pomp and glory of war. Zollicoffer was the idol of the people of Tennessee; Bailie Peyton of its young men. That both should fall in the same battle plunged Nashville in deepest mourning.

When the bodies arrived, it was a city of tears. Flags floated at half-mast; women walked the streets wringing their hands and weeping bitter tears. Their idols lay dead. Poor Nashville! She was to drink still deeper of the bitter cup of war.