Our regiment has left its pleasant camp near Fort Henry, and has crossed the Tennessee and encamped in a small field about three miles above the fort. I happened to be in command when we halted here, and named the camp after our colonel.

It is a rainy day in camp—since morning it has been rain, rain, rain. The camp seems deserted; save here and there you see a man, with blanket drawn close over head and shoulders, plod heavily and slowly through the mud. The horses stand with heads down, and drooping ears, stock still—nothing moves but the rain, and that straight down. There is no light umbrella, nor rattling omnibus in camp; nor dry stockings, nor warm fire to find, at home. The tents are tired of shedding rain, and it oozes through; there were no spades to trench them, and it runs under. There is water above, and mud beneath, and wet everywhere. No fun in soldiering now.

An officer says, "Captain, you will report immediately for orders." So I wrap my blanket round me, and toil over to the colonel's tent. The colonel is a young man, but an old soldier, and has the only fire in camp. It is close to the tent door—no danger on such a day of the canvas catching fire—the smoke occasionally blows in, but so does the heat, and the colonel says he will keep it up all night. He pitched his tent, too, the moment he arrived, not waiting for the clouds, and did it well. His alone is comfortable—so much for being a "regular," and learning your lessons from experience.

The colonel hands me the order, which runs thus—"To-morrow, Captain N. will proceed with a flag of truce to Paris, and remove our wounded, left there at the recent engagement. Should they be held as prisoners of war, he is authorized to make an exchange, and will take with him the surgeon and an ambulance, and four of his own men."

The colonel then advises me to see the officer who commanded the late expedition to Paris, and learn from him the names of the wounded, and the roads. I go to his tent and find that he is sick, and has secured a little hospital stove, which puffs and blows like a locomotive baby. There is also an old gentleman there, whose son was taken prisoner by us at Paris. He has brought in the body of an officer who died of his wounds, and he hopes to procure the release of his son, now on his way to St. Louis. Mr. Clokes lives on the Paris road, and it is arranged that he ride back with the surgeon in our ambulance.

I plod back to our tent; the water has run in, and it is ankle-deep in mud. Though the sun is hardly down, my two lieutenants have gone to bed, for there is no place to sit up, and nothing to see, or hear, or do. I may as well turn in, too; but there rises a serious question. My boots are mud from top to bottom, and wringing wet. If I pull them off, I may not be able to pull them on, and a man cannot carry a flag of truce without boots. If I leave them on, I shall have to go to bed without my feet, for it will never do to put that mass of mud into your blankets, and they feel like lumps of ice now. What shall I do? I will pull them off, and will get up before reveille (an hour, if necessary) and pull them on again. So I pull off the boots, and lie down in my wet clothes, and wrap myself in my wet blanket, and remember that I have not had anything since a scant noonday dinner.

You get hungry in camp, and must be fed. Our camp chest is packed up under a tree, but on the other side of the tent is a pan with some stewed goose and corn bread. I cannot step into the mud unless I struggle into those boots again; but near me is an axe. I slip down to the end of the cot, and, with the axe, fish the pan of goose out of the little lake it stands in. The unhappy bird swims in a gravy of rainwater, and the corn bread is soaking wet; plates and forks are in the camp chest; but I have my pocket-knife, and with it eat a saltless supper.

My little German orderly comes in after awhile, and, giving a soldier's salute with great ceremony notwithstanding the rain, says:

"Captain, fot orders."

"Bischoff, we must have some coffee. Tell Anderson (our contraband) to bring it."

"But, captain," says Bischoff, "the tent, he blow down—the cook, he go away to a barn—the fire, he go out—the wood, he is wet and will no burn."

"But, Bischoff, we must have some coffee, we shall die if we don't. There is the coffeepot, with a package of ground coffee inside—get some water, and go up to Captain K.'s tent, and ask him to let you make it on the stove."

"Yes, captain," and Bischoff departs.

By and by he comes back with the coffee; we sit up and drink it scalding hot, and, quite revived, say, "now for a smoke." My pipe and tobacco bag are always in my pocket—those North Moore street bags are much more useful than their makers ever dreamt they would be—a dry match is at last induced to go, the wet blankets grow warmer, and we express the opinion that "this is really comfortable."

"Well, captain, any more order?" says Bischoff, who is also revived by his share of the coffee.

"Yes, Bischoff, tell Sergeant Starleigh to be ready, with two men, to go with me in the morning—you will be the fourth; and mind and have the horses ready by seven."

"Yes, captain."

Bischoff goes out, draws the tent opening closely together, holds his hand over his pipe to keep it dry; and then we hear his steps slowly receding—sqush—sqush—sqush through the mud.

My dreams are entirely of boots, and they wake me early. Then commences a struggle for (outside) existence. Twice I take out my knife and meditate the last resort, and twice my hand is stayed by the thought that there may be no shoemaker in all Tennessee. It grows later and lighter, and I shall miss the morning roll-call for the first time since I have been in service. But the colonel saves me from breaking my rule. He thinks it too bad to make the men stand out in the wet, and has ordered the buglers not to sound the reveille. While resting, I betake myself to the goose—now truly a waterfowl and wetter than he ever was in his life—and manage to breakfast between the struggles. At last I am victorious, and have the boots beneath my feet, and go out to look around.

The poetry most appropriate to the occasion would be a verse of that little infant school hymn,

But poetry is the last thing I think of, for my thoughts run on the roads; and some drenched pickets, who look as though they wanted to be hung on a fence to dry, inform me that I will have hard work to get through, and that it has rained all night as it is raining now. At home, what a hardship, what an outrage it would be to send us off in such weather and on such roads. Now, we fear something may prevent, and hurry lest it come, for the road is not more uncomfortable than the camp, or the rain wetter elsewhere than it is here. The doctor is a grey-headed, prudent, experienced man, and is something of an invalid; but he stoutly discredits a rumor that the wounded men have died, and whispers to me that we had better be off, before any more such stories come in.

A flag of truce is not kept ready-made in camp, and we are rather puzzled of what to make one now. "I'd lend you my white handkerchief" (says a man who has been listening with great gravity to various suggestions)—"I'd lend you my white handkerchief, only I'm afeard if you put it up, the rebels 'ud think you'd histe-tud the black flag, and give you no quarter." We do not borrow the white handkerchief. But at length we remember the hospital tent, and the hospital steward produces a piece of white something from his stores, which is bound around a stick and made into a flag.

Under circumstances such as these, the doctor climbs into the ambulance, I mount my horse, and we start. The rain somewhat abates, and diminishes to a drizzle, which is a great relief; but the ambulance drags along snail-like through the mud. We, who are mounted, do not ride faster than a walk, yet repeatedly have to wait, and watch it crawling after us among the trees. This slow movement gives little exercise, and when one starts wet, he soon becomes cold and stiff, sitting thus motionless in a damp saddle. Nor can we trot off a mile or two, and then wait for the ambulance to catch up, for some straggling rebel soldiers may be on any cross-road, or in any thicket, and pounce upon the ambulance as so much plunder, and shoot the doctor before they inquire into the facts. A surgeon is a non-combatant, and not required to be shot at, and we must stay near by and shield him, if nothing more.

Our road is the first object of interest—a wagon track running along high forest ridges, parallel to the Tennessee. We soon pass a little timber house, with its scanty field and scantier garden; and then go on, on, two, three miles, without seeing a sign of life; and then we turn into the main road from the river to Paris. There is now a railroad passing through Paris, from Nashville to Memphis, yet a year ago the road we are now travelling was its main avenue. We are, therefore, disappointed in finding that although the farms are frequent, they are poor and neglected, and the dwellings are the same backwoods, timber houses we have so often seen.

We have now travelled seven or eight miles, and have passed the "line of our pickets." In point of fact, there is no line, real or imaginary, and we do not see a single picket; yet, inasmuch as our cavalry is constantly passing through and examining, by night and by day, a belt of country from six to eight miles wide, it is customary to speak of that belt as within our picket lines. Hitherto I have ridden at the head of the party, and the ambulance has followed close behind. Now some additional precaution is necessary. A man rides about the width of a city block ahead of us carrying the flag, and the ambulance falls back about the same distance in the rear. The object of these changes is, first, that a man riding alone in advance indicates that it is not an ordinary scouting party; and second, if shots are fired, the doctor and his man will be out of danger. The chief risks we run are, first, that our object may not be perceived, and we be fired into before we can explain; and second, that King's cavalry, who are said to have suffered in the late fight, and to be a wild, marauding set, may never have heard of the laws of war, and utterly disregard the flag of truce.

Five hours have passed, and we have just reached Mr. Clokes'. How delightful is a wood fire, roaring and crackling in a wide, old-fashioned fire-place, and how comforting is a dry board floor in a rainy day! Chairs and a table, too, are articles of luxury, if one but knew it; and when you have dined and breakfasted, seated on logs or saddles, or such like conveniences, for a few weeks, you appreciate them properly. I might add a paragraph on plates and knives and forks; but of those I have not been deprived more than a week at a time, and hence they do not fall within the class of novelties.

This dinner I shall always fondly remember. I cannot call to mind any other dinner that at all rivals it. We are so hungry, and cold, and wet, and it is so pleasant to "sit down to dinner" once more. And then this dinner is so nice, and neat, and plentiful, showing, for a soldier's cooking, a good housewife's care! If that bewatered goose could see it, he would feel ashamed of himself, and request leave to be cooked over again. I was about to begin with the tablecloth, and enumerate all that was on it; but it occurs to me that what is a feast to us is an every-day affair to you, and that you will shrug your shoulders, and say, "Not much of a dinner after all." And I must confess that Mrs. Clokes' apologies called my attention to certain wants, which show that our blockade has been effective in disturbing the serenity of Southern housewives.

"I have nothing but rye coffee to offer you, gentlemen: it is impossible for us to get coffee now."

"What does coffee cost down here, Mrs. Clokes?"

"The last we bought was a dollar a pound, but now we cannot get it at any price. Everything is dreadfully scarce. I'm sorry we have no fresh meat, but the soldiers [rebels, she means] have taken a great many of our pigs, and we lost some which we killed, for want of good salt." Salt, I find, was fourteen dollars a sack when last heard from, and, like coffee, has gone entirely out of the market.

In the corner is a colored girl carding cotton by hand. I look at the operation with some interest, and Mrs. Clokes goes on with the story of her wants: "There is no calico to be had, and we have to spin and weave by hand. Do you know, sir, whether trade will be opened soon with the North: our hand-cards are nearly worn out, and I do not know where to look for others? A neighbor of ours paid ten dollars for a pair the other day, and I don't suppose I could buy them at any price now."

But there is a heavier grief in poor Mrs. Clokes' breast. She talks of her son: "He is so ill and so young, he will die if kept a prisoner at the North, and he did not enlist till they threatened the drafting. Oh! why did we ever go to war, we were so prosperous and happy! Gentlemen, can't you do anything for my son?" And poor Mrs. Clokes' voice fails her, and she bursts into tears.

But, dinner done, we must resume our journey. It is nine miles now to Paris. We have seen no rebel pickets; but our friends, the contrabands, tell us, that they have gone along a little while ago, and it will be dangerous meeting in the dark.

Thirty years ago two brothers came from Massachusetts and put up their little spinning-mill near Paris. The mill has grown larger as they have grown older, and they are now among the wealthy men of the place. Situated as they are—from the North—from hated Massachusetts;—for years employing free labor, and owning slaves only through their Southern wives; they have had to be most circumspect in every word and act, giving no sign of loyalty, but, I doubt not, secretly exulting at each success of the national arms. When our troops retreated from Paris, leaving their dead on the neighboring field, the one brother had the bodies of our fallen soldiers carefully brought in, and buried them, as if they were his own kinsmen, in the town cemetery; and the other took the dying captain of our artillery corps into his own house, and nursed him tenderly through his last hours. It is in the gloom of evening that we reach the factory, standing close to the track of the Memphis railroad, neat and unadorned, New England reflected from every one of its plain white boards. A gentleman comes forward as we halt, and I introduce myself. He steps up close, and asks, in a low voice, if we think we are safe. A train was up an hour ago taking down the telegraph wires; pickets have galloped past, and are now in Paris, and he thinks it dangerous for us to go there to-night. He also says, that he dare not ask us to stop; he came near being arrested for taking in poor Captain Bullis. If he should ask us, he would be arrested and on his way to Memphis within twelve hours.

There is a house beyond, where we can stay; but it is a rule with me to advance, and then fall back to my camping ground. So we retrace our steps for a mile, and halt at the farm house of a Mr. Horton, who does not keep a tavern, but does entertain travellers. The sergeant, with one man, has ridden on to break the subject and make arrangements, and when we come up, everything is ready. Our weary horses are soon unsaddled and rolling in straw, and I follow the doctor into the house.

It is an old house, with old trees in front, and an old couple within. They sit on each side of the wide wood fire, and each comfortably puffs a pipe of home-grown tobacco. We sit down and join them, and talk Union for an hour or two.

Our host is a hale, hearty old man. He glories in the past, laments the present, and hopes for the future. The old lady listens with great gravity, and occasionally puts in a word between the puffs of her pipe.

"They would not let us vote for the Union at the second election," says the old man, "and I hadn't time to vote against it. So I stayed at home and told 'em that one election was enough in one year, and I couldn't spare time for more."

"Yes," says the old lady, "quite enough, and I thought something would happen when I found we were having two."

"I don't believe in Mr. Davis' doctrine," says the old man, "of fighting in the last ditch till everybody's dead. We were the most prosperous, happy people on the earth, and we had better go back and be so again than be killed."

"Yes, indeed!" says the old lady; "we had better not; and if we were, there would be nobody left for our girls to marry but northerners; so the South would get to be the North in no time."

Our room is a large one, with another large fire and three beds. The doctor takes one, and I hand the others over to the men; it will not do for me to undress, so I take my buffalo, and lie down by the fire.

I was beginning to doze, and thinking I never was so comfortable in my life—it was so delightful to shut your eyes and stretch yourself out, and feel the pleasant warmth of this glowing, flickering fire, when the opening of the door startles me, and I see the sergeant, who is "on guard," come in.

He reports that two men on horseback came up from Paris; one of them stopped and called out our host. They had a long conversation in a low voice, and then the man turned and rode back on a gallop. "And the contrabands say that the old man is secesh," pursues the sergeant, "and when the rebel troops went by, he made them come out and hurrah." This is agreeable. Was the man on horseback a picket, and will there be a troop clattering down on us in a few minutes? or has he gone to raise a crowd of irresponsible countrymen, who will think it fine fun to kill us and capture our horses, and of whom Gen. Beauregard will say, he really knows nothing, they were not soldiers, and acted without authority? Is our old friend false to us?

"Sergeant, what do you think of it?"

The sergeant is a shrewd judge of character, and there is no one in the squadron whose opinion I would regard more highly on such a point as this. He comes up close to the fire, and I see his face has a very anxious expression, and he says, after a long pause: "I don't know what to think of it."

"Well, go back and pick out a place where you can see up the Paris road, and call me the instant you see any object moving. Doctor, I say, did you hear that?"

"Yes, and I don't know what to think of it" says the doctor. "Can anything be done?"

"The worst of it is, doctor, that the flag prevents our doing anything till actually attacked. We must now go in the character of guests, professing entire faith. If we were on ordinary duty, our sergeant would have stopped that man, and I should keep him here till we leave. As it is, we can neither fight nor run away—though it is hardly fair, as you are a non-combatant, to make you risk it."

"I think I will risk it if you do," says the doctor; and he turns over and goes to sleep.

I lie by the fire this time without dozing. The men are all sleeping heavily and undisturbed. The hovering dagger does not trouble them. Soon it is time to change guard. I rouse the next man, and the sergeant comes in and takes his place on the bed. I wonder if other people find a weight in responsibility. Many talked to me of the danger of the cavalry service—only one ever named this other word, which is much the heavier. The men have no responsibility, and are at rest; the sergeant, lately so anxious, has made his report, performed his duty, and has no more responsibility: he now sleeps as soundly as the others.

The man on guard will be relieved of his in an hour or two, and he will lie down and slumber too. But I hear the distant barking of dogs, and start up at the sound, for we have learnt to observe the movements of our own cavalry at night by this sign. Every house keeps half a dozen curs, and they yelp frantically when a body of horse is passing. I open the door softly and peer out. The moon sheds a dim light through the clouds, disclosing the long line of road and distant woods toward Paris. The sentinel stands motionless under a tree by the road side. "Allen, do you see anything?" "No, sir." "Did you hear that barking?" "Yes, sir." "Watch whether it sounds again at any other house, and if it is coming toward us." We listen long but hear nothing. It must have been a chance disturbance there. I lie down again, consoling myself with the thought, that I am at least warm and dry. The geese make a tremendous cackling behind the house. Rome was saved by a flock of geese, and why shouldn't we be. The sentinel is watching the road in front; it will be better if I go out and inspect the rear.

Thus the time passes till I post the next man on guard, and thus the night wears away, till at 4 A.M. I rouse the last one. Soon after I hear sounds about the house, for the contrabands rise early, then come signs of breakfast, then the grey light of morning, and with it the voice of our old host and a warning that his wife is up and breakfast almost ready. It is a right good breakfast, and we start as soon as it is done, repass the factory, travel over a couple of miles of muddy road, and come in sight of Paris.

There are brick houses in view, four church spires, large trees and a court house; but we discover no Confederate flag. In another moment we have entered, and are going up the main street. The first man stops and looks at us, so does the second and the third. The moment a man catches a glimpse of us he seems to freeze fast to the sidewalk and lose all power over himself, save that of staring vacantly at the Yankee cavalry. We seem to be riding up an avenue of these staring, frozen images. The red brick court house has a little square around it and forms a natural halting place. I ride up and ask one of the frozen if there is any Confederate officer in town. He says "No," in a frightened way; "they all retired this morning, a couple of hours ago." This relieves me of my flag of truce. We find that two of our wounded men have been removed to Memphis, and the third is too low to bear moving. The doctor, and the physician who has been attending him, start off to see him, and I draw my men up to the fence and let them dismount. My North Moore street education has made me much more particular in "deportment" than volunteer officers generally are, and my squadron, when on duty, generally bears the same appearance to some other squadrons that North Moore street does to some other schools. These townspeople are therefore very much astonished to see a man left on guard with the horses, and perfectly amazed when he draws his sabre and marches steadily up and down his beat, and I hear one whisper, "Perhaps they be United States reg'lars."

In a few minutes there is quite a crowd of congealed citizens around us, all staring solemnly in icy silence. They say nothing to us or to each other, but steadily stare. I feel their looks crawling down my back and round my sides, and turn which way I will, there is no shaking them off. I have faced the eyes of many an audience, but never such as this. They neither smile nor frown, nor agree nor disagree; but have a vague, stupid look of frightened wonder, as though we were dangerous serpents escaped from a travelling menagerie, which they can see for nothing at the risk of being swallowed alive.

It is best to be cool and comfortable under all sorts of circumstances, so I take out my pipe, exhibit a North Moore street bag to these gay Parisians, and strike a light. Picking out the most sensible man near me, I commence a conversation complimenting them on the appearance of their little town, which is more northernly neat than I expected to find. Some men then come up and hand to me the little effects of our dead soldiers, and give many assurances of their kindness to our wounded. The doctor about this time comes back, and we start immediately on our return. For some miles I march rapidly, urging the ambulance horses to their utmost, for there is no saying but the rebel cavalry may return and amuse themselves by a pursuit. Then we drop in to our previous slow gait, and calculate that we shall reach camp by sunset.

There is a long bridge on this road crossing a stream, with the pretty name of "The Holly Fork;" on our way out, it struck me that our road to Paris might be very easily barred by a little bridge-burning, and at Paris some questions were asked which indicated that it was to have been burned ere this. I measure it as we recross, and finding that it is 255 feet long, and that the stream cannot be forded, send on two men with a report to the colonel.

It is now five o'clock, and we are two miles from camp. My horse has been going almost uninterruptedly for ten hours, and I am promising him a good bed of leaves and a long night's rest, when, through the trees, come two troopers riding on a gallop. They pull up, and hand me a letter from the colonel: "Captain (it says), your squadron is detailed to guard the bridge at Holly Fork; you will take all proper measures to defend it if attacked, and will remain there until relieved by some other squadron."

"Did you see anything of my men?" I say to the messengers. "Yes; they were saddling up, and will be along soon." I may as well keep on; they may be bringing me a fresh horse, and then I can send this one back by these men. In half an hour I find the man who leads has lead us on to a wrong road. He tries a cross-cut, and the cross-cut leads to a field. We must turn the ambulance round and retrace both errors. It is vexatious in the extreme, to have this additional load put on my willing horse after two such days' work and besides, the squadron may have passed while we were wandering about here. I curb my impatience as well as I can, and at length we reach the road. There, plain enough, is a cavalry trail, freshly made since we turned off, and it tells its own story—the squadron has gone by.

"Captain," says the doctor from the ambulance, "must you go back?"

"Yes, doctor, I suppose I must."

"Well, if you must, here is your haversack."

"Thank you, doctor; is there anything left in yours?"

"Yes; some hard biscuit and dry beef. I will put them in for you." And the doctor transfers them from his haversack to mine.

"Now, Bischoff, roll up the buffalo; quick's the word; we must go back to within seven miles of Paris, and the sun is setting."

"Good-bye, captain," calls the doctor as I start. "I hope you won't be hurt to-night."

"I hope not, doctor; good-bye. And now, Bischoff, for the squadron and Holly Fork."