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.

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."

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 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 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:

"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 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 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."

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 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, 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 or be more unusual than halting in such a spot, and at such an hour; yet no man asks a question, or appears surprised. Those who have been at the cross-roads all day, gather in little groups and talk; and those who have been with me, lie down and doze. Wonderful are the effects of discipline and experience! A year ago how agitated would these same men have been, and how discussed this inexplicable delay! Now they are undisturbed, and leave it all to me. The videttes ride in and whisper reports, and ride out again with whispered instructions; yet this man relights his pipe, and that one goes on with his story. At length the Tennessee bed time is passed, and the videttes from the front "come in." The orders are given, "Be silent;" "Hold your sabres so that they will not clank;" "By file to the right;" and we are retracing our steps to Buena Vista. Riding by file makes a less intense noise, though the column is stretched out to twice its usual length, and the noise lasts twice as long. We mount the hill noiselessly, and I look with anxiety at the house. Do I see a light? No, 'tis but the moon glimmering on the window panes. We approach it—the dogs are as silent as the men. I am before it, and check Ida to her slowest walk—the column behind me hardly moves, and the horses seem to tread lightly. We are past, and no cur has yelped or person seen us—our first strategic movement is successful. "It was done first rate," whispers the sergeant behind me; "we got ahead of the dogs that time."

On our left there is a corn field, with the tall Southern corn still 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!