The next duty I was on was when Gen. D. S. Stanley, chief of cavalry, made his dashing raid on the rebel camps near Middleton, Tennessee. It was a brilliant affair, and managed with consummate skill. Leaving Camp Stanley late in the evening, about the last of March, or first of April, 1863, he led a heavy column of cavalry down upon the camps in the vicinity of Middleton; the march being conducted in the night, the darkness and dust so impenetrable that a man could scarcely see his file-leader; indeed, the General had to station guides all along the route, at cross-roads, to prevent some of the columns from taking the wrong way. The Fourth Regular Cavalry had the lead, their advance-guard consisting of about twenty men, who behaved most gallantly, driving in the rebel pickets, and throwing the first camp into confusion, by an impetuous charge, entering it simultaneously with the flying pickets themselves.

The rebels being taken by surprise, leaped from their beds or blankets, without coats, pants or hats,—some, even, without drawers. Our men cut and hacked away as they advanced, until the rebels discovered that their assailants were but a handful of men, when they rallied, and drove the regulars out of camp, with a withering fire which caused our boys to suffer severely. But that was only for a moment; Gen. Stanley was almost immediately upon the enemy with his heavy column, and he swept everything before him, by one grand, irresistible, overwhelming charge. On and over the terror-stricken rebels, rode Stanley's daring men with their flashing blades; and the Spartan band of regulars, being thus relieved from bearing the whole burden of rebel fire, rallied again and dashed headlong into the thickest of the battle. On and on they sped, and so the first camp was carried, and the second brigade, under the gallant Col. Eli Long, rushed upon the foe, the ground fairly trembling beneath the mighty host of maddened horses, while the air was filled with the clash of steel, the rattle of sabers, the hurried fire of the enemy, the shouts of the victors, the hoarse commands of officers choked with dust, and the groans and shrieks of the wounded and the dying. Wo to the man, be he friend or foe, who fell on that field amid that impetuous charge. He sank only to be trodden under foot and crushed to death.

On rolled another wing of the command under Gen. John Turchin, sweeping over all opposition, till it was suddenly fired upon from a third camp. But, even here, there was scarcely a momentary check. The doughty general raised himself in his stirrups, and shouted:

"Now, boys, ve makes von more scharge"—

And before the sound of his voice had died away, the column was sweeping pell-mell through the camp, among the tents and shanties of the enemy. Frightened beyond measure, the rebels almost ceased to fight, but threw down their arms, and thought only of escape. Our men rushed madly on, after resistance had ceased, until recalled by the bugle sound; after which they returned in triumph to Murfreesboro, leading with them five hundred of the rebels as prisoners of war.

Every regiment—the 7th Pennsylvania, the 4th Regulars, the 4th Michigan, the 4th Ohio, and 3d Indiana—all, all, seemed to be in their element that morning; and each member of those regiments must ever regard as a proud day in their history, that one on which they charged and cleared the rebel camps at Middleton. It was a glorious victory to them, and a withering defeat to the enemy.

The scene after the fight surpasses all description. The ground was strewn with arms and accouterments—guns, pistols, sabers, cartridge-boxes, belts, blankets, quilts, coverlets, torn tents, riddled with balls, cooking utensils, filled with food, mess pans, smoking hot, containing cow-peas and bacon; dead and dying men—some of them cleft, with the deadly saber, from crown to neck—wounded unfortunates staggering about,—some supplicating for mercy, and others begging to be relieved of their tortures by death—some with bodies so hoof-beaten as almost to defy recognition—these were the sights which met our gaze on every side, and startled and sickened the hardiest soldier, as he gazed at the result of his morning's work.

Here and there one of our brave boys had succumbed to the enemy's fire—but they were fortunately few—and these engaged our earliest attention; and while we were attending to these, the rebel infantry, encamped two miles away, having been aroused by the fighting, came upon us at a double-quick; but our worthy general was not to be caught napping; and, having accomplished his object, he recalled his men, mounted them, and returned in triumph to Murfreesboro; but not until the enemy's quarters—winter quarters at that—were committed to the flames; and with them were burned thousands of small arms, while hundreds of horses were killed, and as many saddles destroyed. This raid resulted in almost the complete destruction of the famous 8th Confederate Cavalry, which bore the brunt of our heavy charge. Hundreds of the bodies of men belonging to that command lay scattered over the field; while many more graced our triumph by being led away as captives. Our loss was small in numbers, but no man who fell there, could have been well-spared, as each was a hero—almost a host. We carried off our dead and wounded; not a strap or buckle fell into the hands of the enemy, when they returned again to their old haunts. We shot every horse that fell into our hands—even some of our own that broke down on the march

In this fight, I had little in the way of personal adventure, of an unusual character—perhaps not so much as occurred to hundreds of others on that day. One fellow fired a load of buck shot through the right knee of my pants, but in return, I worked a new button hole in his coat, with my rifle. Colonel Long sent me with an order to Major Dobb, who was in command of the 4th Ohio; and I "lit out," amid the dust, smoke, confusion and clatter, in search of the Major, but succeeded in running up to the wrong crowd, and did not discover my mistake till within fifty yards of the rebels themselves. I had reached the end of a lane which ran around a ten acre field, and come out into another that ran from a house, through a cedar brake; and coming to this last lane, I turned down it to a party of soldiers I saw close by. Our men were all covered with dust, and almost as grey as the rebels; and when I saw them, I hailed, but they refused to answer me. I hailed them again, thinking still that they were our men, and this time rode out from behind the fence, in full view of their lines, so that they could see my accoutrements; and instantly a volley from the cedar brake greeted me; and after discharging their pieces, five of the men nearest, charged out after me.

I was riding a very pretty little mare that I had taken from them, when we charged the first camp—my own horse having fallen headlong in the fight, and as I had no time to ascertain the cause, I seized the one I was then on, and saddling her in haste, mounted her—and she ran past the end of the lane I had come down, and then up into the other, so that I was nearly hemmed in; but I wheeled instantly, and dashing back again, gained the end of the lane I wanted to follow, about thirty feet ahead of them. My mare was as fleet as a deer, and I left them so fast that they soon ceased to pursue; but halting, they kept up a steady fire across the field, while I ran around three sides of it, and until I was out of their sight behind the friendly cedars. I at last found the regiment in another part of the field, up to their eyes in a fight, and delivered Colonel Long's order to the Major and then retired to the company ranks. It was my first attempt at playing aid-de-camp, and I readily reached the conclusion that as an occupation, it was not calculated to prolong the natural term of a man's life.

After my return to Murfreesburro, I went to Harpeth Shoals, on special service. Van Dorn was then foraging in that region; and the country was overrun with marauders. I went about leisurely, and called on all the famous guerrillas in that section, at their homes. They were chiefly De Morse's men, and I spent ten days rambling about with them, scouting the country daily, from Indian creek to Harpeth Shoals, and back to some of the many little streams which flow past into the Tennessee. I was disguised as a Texas Ranger, and was violently secesh, of course; and in this character I was stopping at the house of a notorious guerrilla, named Tom Couch. I grew patriotic during our interview, and boasted of the prowess of the Rangers, and expressed my opinion of those who favored the Yankee cause, in no very flattering terms; extolled the devotion of those who proved faithful to the South, and abused the black hearted Abolitionists of the North, till I got old Tom's "Southern heart" thoroughly "fired," and he could no longer retain himself, and he spoke unreservedly:

"The people of this section have always stood true to the South, sir; we can never be conquered; never! NEVER! NEVER! This is Dixie, and a Yankee has never dared to put his foot on these hills, although we are only sixteen miles from Nashville. If we should even catch one here we would hang him instantly. They dare not give us a chance, but keep far enough from us. They never can take this rough country; our hills are all free from them, thank God!"

Old Tom lived on Pond creek, and there was a Tennesseean, an officer in our army, with whom I was personally acquainted, whose family were next neighbors to him; and I told him that I was on secret service for Gen. Polk, and that I was authorized to give five hundred dollars for the capture of that officer—Dave Knight—and his delivery to me on the spot; and he was delighted to know that the General was after the Lincolnites with such earnestness, and promised me every assistance in his power. He told me that Gen. R. B. Mitchel had arrested a great many men and women, too, and confined them in the penitentiary at Nashville, to be sent South, or punished as was thought best; and Couch told me very confidentially that Dave Knight's wife was to be arrested and taken South, to be held for retaliation, along with many others. This was news to me, and I asked him if I could afford any assistance, and told him if I could, it should be cheerfully given. He then told me that the duty had been committed to De Morse's men, and that about three hundred of them had crossed Harpeth river, and encamped on Dog creek. Telling him that I would go down to their camp, I jumped on my horse, and put out. I had been in that region the day before, but of that Couch knew nothing; and I was aware that there was a high, steep ridge, that I could travel a mile or so on, and see everything on Dog creek. I reached the hill, and, sure enough, there were the camp fires of the Johnnies.

After dark I went up the country again, and warned Mrs. Knight of her danger, caught her a horse, and took her to Nashville for safety; and this I had barely time to do, as the rebels were ahead of us, picketing every avenue of escape for several miles around, in order to catch as many Union people as possible; but had not yet visited her house. She was a very brave woman, and buckled on her navy revolver without hesitation, and when within a few hundred yards of the rebel pickets she showed me a by-road, which she said she knew perfectly, and that it would take us through the hills to Nashville without going on the Charlotte pike; and this path we followed, and reached our place of destination about twelve o'clock, in the midst of a terrible storm.

Returning to Murfreesboro, I found orders to report for duty in Ohio, and I left camp on the 3d of June, 1863, and arrived in Columbus on the 10th of the same month.