I was now alone in the quiet woods. The sounds of trampling horses had died away, and the little rill beside me trickled peacefully in the still night. I reached my hand down, and, filling my glove with water, poured it over my face. It was cool and refreshing, and in a few moments I was able to rise. I looked at the stream—at the log, beneath which lay my sabre—and at the tree, beneath which lay my horse; and then, making an effort, I stepped upon the log, and crossed into the thick brushwood on the other side. But a few steps were taken when I was glad to sit down upon a fallen tree. I felt stunned and faint, yet hoped I was gathering strength and would soon be able to go on. As I was thus seated the question arose, What should I do? Fort Henry, I knew, was eastward of me. Should I go there?—it was but thirty-five or forty miles. No! the country between must be swarming with rebels. Should I go to Paducah? It was sixty miles northward, and the enemy would, doubtless, follow in that direction. Should I remain hidden in the woods, trusting to their leaving in a few days? Should I crawl to some barn or stack, and take the chance of their not searching it? Would my strength hold out if I went on? and would the fractured bone, that I felt under my coat, and the growing pain in my side, do without the surgeon's care till I could make my way out?

At length I decided on my course: I would go northward till daylight, and thus be some miles ahead; then I would turn eastward, and thus place myself on one side of their probable line of march. During the next day I hoped to meet a contraband, and, obtaining information, then decide whether to continue eastward, toward Fort Henry, or turn northward again to Paducah.

Thus deciding, I took out my handkerchief and tied my pistol round my waist, and then rose from the tree to begin my journey. The broken ribs made it painful to breathe, and my right arm had to be supported constantly by my left. Around me, all was beautiful and serene. The calm moon shone, in peaceful contrast with the exciting scene I had lately witnessed, and lighted my steps and pointed my way. No sound disturbed the stillness of the woods, save that from a distant farm there came the tinkle of a cow-bell. It was in the direction I wished to go, and toward it I slowly made my way. A friend had brought me down the April number of the "Atlantic" before leaving camp, and I had read Whittier's "Mountain Pictures." A line of it came to my mind:

and I wondered whether any other reader would ever thus apply it.

I had to walk slowly through the silvery-lighted woods; but at last drew near the ringing noise, and climbed the hill, on the top of which were the farm and barnyard of the cows. A road ran along the brow of the hill, and on the other side of it appeared some wide fields. To the left was a clump of apple-trees, and the hoarse bark of a dog told me they covered a house. I stopped a few moments to rest and listen, and then stepped cautiously into the road. On the opposite side was a large tree, and in its shadow I tried to climb the high rail fence. I was weaker than I had supposed. My limbs refused at first to lift my weight, and my one arm could not keep me from swinging round against the fence. Twice I thought I must give it up; but, after several efforts, I mounted it, and then, holding my breath, I let myself drop down on the other side.

Across the wide field there was another road. I had not gone far when I heard a noise in the woods, and, fearing it might be a picket of the enemy, I lay down beside the fence. The moon was then near the horizon, and I deemed it most prudent to wait till she had set.

Soon after this I came upon some cows, and these I drove before me. I thought that if there should be a picket in the road the cows would turn off, and there would be less likelihood of my being seen or heard. After going, I should think, a mile, we came to a broad road. This the cows crossed; and I was about to follow, when a large dog came from a house beyond, and, after barking furiously at the cows, came toward me. I took my pistol out, and was prepared to fire, when the dog stopped barking. It was well for me he did so, for within a few yards I heard horses coming up the road. I looked, and saw the outline of some horsemen. There was no time to fly. I sank quietly down upon the ground, and lay still. The horsemen came on. They seemed a picket. One rode in front, who seemed a sergeant, and the others followed. They passed close by me—so close, I could hear the jingling of their spurs.

When they had passed I rose, and determined that thereafter I would not go upon any road or cross any field, or spare any pains. I entered the woods. They were now thick, with underbrush, and I had not the moon to guide me. Frequently I had wanted the North star on night marches, but it had always been hidden by clouds. Now, however, on this night, when I needed it above all others, it shone out beautiful and bright. As I watched it, it seemed an old friend, reappearing to aid me, and again and again as I emerged from some thick underwood, and turned toward its constant blaze, I felt as if it were the companion of my flight. But even with its aid, I encountered difficulties. Sometimes the trees would hide it, and often I had to keep my eyes fixed on my path or strained on suspicious objects around me. My plan was to take some distant hill for a land-mark, and on reaching it, to look for another, and make toward it. Yet fallen trees and deep hollows often made me change my course, and sometimes made me lose it, and then I had to search the sky, and refind the star before I could go on. As I could not use my hands, I was forced to push my way through the brush with my left shoulder. I had lost my hat, too, in the fall, and my hair often caught in the branches. So my progress was slow and wearisome, with no help around me, but with hope before.

I should think it was about three o'clock in the morning, when, from the top of a little hill, there appeared just before me the smoking, smouldering fires of a camp. I knew if it were a camp, that I was within the lines. I turned, therefore, and made my way back as a burglar might glide through a house—sliding my feet along the ground, lest I should tread upon some crackling branch—choosing the thickest wood and the darkest shade. About an hour later, I saw, as I thought, some tents, but knew it was most improbable there should be any there; so I stopped to examine, and then saw they were but the grey light of morning breaking through the trees. It was a welcome sight; yet I confess the night had not seemed long, and that I was surprised to find the morning come.

I now changed my course, and turned toward the east. The woods changed too. There were small trees, with little underbrush, and the ground was a smooth, descending plain. I kept on over this for miles. The sky brightened; the sun rose, and mounted higher and higher. I heard the barking of dogs, the lowing of cattle, and occasionally the voices of men and children. I came, too, upon roads, and these had to be crossed with great caution, coming out step by step, looking carefully up and down, listening anxiously, and they hurrying across and plunging into the woods on the other side. Whence these roads came or where they went, I neither knew nor cared. I was ignorant of the country, but not compelled to ask my way. For once, I was strangely independent, and needed only to look toward the sun and travel east.

Later I came upon fields and farms, and round these I had to make long circuits. One chain of farms, I thought I never should get through. Again and again I was forced to go back and try again. The temptation to break through my resolution, and cross just this one, or that one, was very strong; and I found that making one's escape, like any other success, depends on his resolution and perseverance.

Toward noon, as I was approaching a road, I heard children's voices. I looked, and saw, or thought I saw, a man on horseback. He sat still as though on guard, and I supposed he was one of the enemy's picket. The woods were thin, so I lay down and drew the bushes over me. I watched him, but he did not move, and I soon decided I must stay there as long as he did. Notwithstanding my anxiety, I fell into a doze, probably not for a minute, yet when I opened my eyes, the man was gone, and a tree stood in his place. It was an optical illusion. My eyes had been over-worked for three nights, and for the last twenty hours, constantly strained in examining objects far and near. The moment's rest had dispelled the apparition. I remembered that as the sun was rising that morning, I had long doubted whether a clump of bushes was not a group of my own men—that trees and stumps had several times been changed to sentinels and guards; and I remembered, also, the tents in the morning, and the camp-fires during the night.

I now began to suffer from thirst, for I could only drink by dipping up water with one hand. The sun, too, beat down through the half-leaved trees, and became painful. I twisted some leaves into a sort of cap, but it was often brushed off, and at best made but a poor shelter. I had been disappointed also in not meeting a contraband. Some I had seen in fields, but always with white men, and them I must shun; and as I did so, I asked myself whether this was the United States, and these Americans, that I should be time skulking like a hunted criminal.

Feeling now and then a little faint, I decided on going to a house for something to eat, and again plunging into the woods. Yet here great caution was necessary. I wanted a small house, because it would probably contain but one man, and I must have it out of sight of neighbors and near woods. I passed several, but none of them complied with my conditions—one was too large, another too far back in an open field, and a third was overlooked by a fourth.

It was perhaps three o'clock, and I was growing more and more faint, when I saw an opening through the trees and the corner of a house. I approached it slowly. There was a field beyond, but no houses in sight, and the woods came up to the yard behind. "It is just the house I need," I said to myself, "and now I must risk it and go in." I slipped my pistol round, so that I could draw it quickly from under my coat, and pushed open the gate. All was quiet; I walked round to the door, and saw a woman inside, who looked startled at seeing me. She said she would call her husband, who was in the field, and went out. I watched her, and in a few minutes was satisfied by seeing them returning. I went back, and narrowly inspected the house. A shot gun hung over the window, but it was unloaded and rusted. As I finished, they came in. He was a young man, with a bright, happy face—far too cheerful a face for a secessionist. We looked at each other, and he said:

"You are a Union soldier."

"Yes," I answered; "and what are you?"

"I am a Union citizen," he replied.

The word "Union" was something of a talisman; if he had been a rebel, he would have said Federal.

James Mills (for such was my new-found friend's name) was the first of several suffering and devoted Union men, who refused all pay and reward for the services they rendered to me, and whose kindness I cannot sufficiently praise. He told me I was in a dangerous neighborhood, and must neither stay, nor travel by the road. His wife hurried for me a dinner, and then he went with me through some fields and woods, and placed me upon a path leading to a second Union man's, named Henry Chunn. It was something like three miles to Mr. Chunn's, but I felt quite fresh and equal to a dozen, if necessary.

Arriving there, I was most kindly received by his wife. She told me that her husband would cheerfully take me on toward Paducah. She made me lie down; she bathed my shoulder; and she did everything for me that womanly kindness could suggest. This was the first bed I had lain upon for more than three months. It produced an old effect, for in a few moments I was sound asleep. I slept till after dark, and then awoke by hearing the children cry that father had come. He came in, and walking up to me, said, in a cordial, honest voice:

"My friend, I am truly glad to see you; you are truly welcome to my house."

I went to sleep again and slept till morning. There was bad news then: his mules had disappeared from the barnyard during the night. But I must wait; his boys would find them by the time we finished breakfast. At breakfast a little circumstance occurred which may give you an idea of the different life we lead on the border. Across some fields, and beyond some woods, we heard a gun. It was no cannon—a mere shot-gun, such as a boy might fire anywhere on a spring morning—yet we all stopped talking.

"What does that mean?" I asked, after the silence had continued a few moments.

"I don't know," said Mr. Chunn.

"Have your neighbors guns and powder?"

"No."

"Then," said I, "it may mean a great deal for us."

We all rose from the table, and looked anxiously across the fields; but nothing was to be seen. The family looked troubled, and Mr. Chunn said something about the mules being gone, and this being strange. We waited some time, but all continued quiet. But the boys had not found the mules, and Mr. Chunn accordingly walked on with me toward the house of Mr. Edward Magness, who was likewise a good Union man, and would willingly help me on.

I took leave of these kind, simple-minded people, whose plain and honest goodness is rare in the great world, from which they live apart, and went slowly along the little wood road. I soon came to a field in which were two or three men and several children, planting corn. I must here explain to you that in the South corn is the one great crop on which everybody lives. The bread is all made of corn; the horses are fed on corn; the pigs are fattened on corn; and if the corn should fail there would be a famine. There were fears that it would fail. The spring had been cold and wet, and the planting was not half done, which always had been over a week before. All hands were working early and late on every plantation, seizing on this fine weather for hurrying in the corn. As Mr. Magness came down a furrow, near me, I stepped out of the bushes, and told him briefly who I was, and what I wanted. It must have been an unwelcome tale; yet he never, by a look or word, gave a disagreeable sign. Promptly he stopped his plough and unhitched his horses. Unwillingly I saw the planting cease. But when I spoke of it, he said pleasantly, they would try and make up the lost time when he came back. We went to his house, the saddles were soon put on, and we started. My companion was more than usually intelligent, and gave me much information. He also understood the danger of being seen by secessionists, and picked his way with great care by unused roads.

A ride of several miles brought us to the house of Mr. Wade. A very shrewd and cautious man was Mr. Wade, yet a staunch Union man, who had spoken, and suffered for the cause. He had spent the previous eight months chiefly at Paducah, stealing up occasionally in the dark of evening to see his family, and leaving before daylight the next morning. Once he had been arrested, and twice his house had been searched and robbed. He knew well the woods and by-paths, and had tried the difficulties and dangers of escaping from guerrillas. He and I, therefore, had much more in common than the others, and in him I felt I had a trusty and experienced friend; yet strange to tell, he was—a South Carolinian.

We went into the house. On a couch lay a very aged woman, who, I thought, was childish. Mr. Wade and Mr. Magness were old friends, and talked as country neighbors talk, of crops, and roads, and men, and places. At last Mr. Magness said: "I saw Edward Jones yesterday, and he told me they had had a letter from Joel, and that he wrote they were leaving Corinth, and had been attacked. His regiment was defeated, and he had to run for his life."

The old lady, at this, rose up and said: "Say that over, sir."

Mr. Magness repeated it.

"He is my own grandson," said the old lady. "The night before he went he came here, and I told him never to fight against his country—the country his forefathers fought for. He said, 'Grandmother, they will call me a coward if I don't go.' A coward! I would let them call me anything, I told him, before I would fight against my country. But he went. And, now, what do you tell me? He is my own grandson—my own flesh and blood—so I can't wish him killed," said the old lady, with great feeling; "but, I thank God—I thank God he has had to run for his life!"

Our early dinner finished, Mr. Magness took his departure, and we started.

"We will stop at my brother-in-law's, captain," said Mr. Wade, "and get you a better saddle. It is only a mile from here." So we rode quietly along.

"We will pass our member of Assembly," said Mr. Wade. "It is about a mile from my brother-in-law's. He is a true man, I tell you. The secesh would give anything to get him."

By this time we reached his brother-in-law's. A little girl was in the yard, and, as we stopped, came to the gate.

"Well, uncle," said the little girl, "are you running away again from the rebel soldiers?"

"No," said Mr. Wade, cheerfully, "—oh no: there are no rebels round now."

"Yes, there are," said the girl. "Father has just come from Farmington, and there are four hundred there."

"What! four hundred in Farmington!"

"It is so, brother," said a woman who had come out—"it is so. They came there this morning; and husband hurried back to tell the neighbors."

"Captain," said Mr. Wade, "the sooner you and I get out of this country the better for us."

"How far is it back to Farmington?"

"Only four miles."

"Is there any reason for their coming down this road?"

"Yes: Hinckley, the member we elected, lives on it, and Jones, who helped elect him, lives on it, and I live on it. They would like to arrest us all. But about half a mile from Hinckley's there is a little side-path we can take for five or six miles."

Could we have ridden on a gallop, the side-path would have been 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.