In the desultory and sporadic warfare carried on in the Southwest, the scout—or “skeout,” according to the dialect of the region—was a very important element of our organization, and it is amusing now to recall the variety of odd-fish of every description who applied for the remunerative employment that this branch of the service afforded.

The interest of our life at Union City was not a little enhanced by two specimens of this genus with whom we had much to do,—Pat Dixon and “The Blind Preacher.”

One day the guard brought in a suspicious character from the picket-line. He was about twenty-five years old, long, lank, and dusky,—a sort of half-Indian, half-Irish looking fellow, with uncombed hair and an over-prominent quid of tobacco. He rode the usual “nag” of the country,—an animal with more blood than bone and more vice than beauty. He dismounted, passed his bridle over his arm, and “squatted,”—the usual posture of the country. “The Hun,” the professional bully of all our culprits, took this creature in hand, and presently came in with a suggestion that I had better see him alone. He followed me cautiously to one side, leading his horse with him, and squatted again when we had halted at a safe distance from curious ears.

“I’m Pat Dixon. I live down Troy way on the North Fork. Ye see, when this yer muss fust broke out I didn’t go to take no sides in it. But Merryweather’s men they come along a little ’fore sun-up, last month was a year, an’ they taken the only nag we had left. I’d had him hid out all summer, but some derned skunk done found him out. I heern the cusses a trampin’ roun’ an’ I was goin’ to take a crack at ’em for ‘good mornin’,’ but, you see, I knowed if I did they’d just burn the old woman out, an’ she don’t git along but porely, anyhow, so I didn’t. They conscripted the old man the year afore, an’ he hain’t been heern on sence. So I come to the conclushin that I wa’n’t agoin’ to stan’ no such treatmint as that—by King! an’ I jest took to the bresh, an’ I reckon I’ve pestered them ’uns right smart. I ain’t agoin’ afoot long as theys hosses in West Tannisy,—you bet! I was agoin’ to jine you Yanks, but thinks sez I: ’Old Pat, you kin do a heap better in the bresh nor what you kin in no army,’ and so I stuck to it. O, now, I’m squar’! Frank Moore can tell you all ’bout me; I ain’t no gum-game, I ain’t. If you want a skeout, I’m on hand, an’ I don’t want no pass, I kin git ’roun’ in this kentry.

“Which? hoss? Well, ’t ain’t much of a nag, but theys more on ’em roun’, an’ if this ’un tuckers out I’ll git somethin’ to ride. I ain’t goin’ afoot.—no, mam!”

This was very much the sort of talk “Mr.” Forrest’s emissaries used in seeking our services for his purposes; so, partly to secure ourselves on this point, and partly to give Dixon a good character should he go out from our camp in his professional capacity, he was sent for a few days to the guard-house, until Frank Moore should return from an expedition. I believe Frank knew most of the vagabonds of Obion County, and he at once certified that this was no other than Pat Dixon; that his story was true; and that, while his controlling motives were not perhaps such as one would most admire, his unconquerable hatred of Merryweather’s men and all their confederates might be relied on with implicit confidence; so Pat was engaged as an employÉ of our Secret Service Department, and sent outside the lines with a conspicuous assurance, as he left his fellow-prisoners, that if found again within our reach he would be hanged forthwith for a spy. I was riding on the road he took, and he gave me a leering wink as he departed,—with instructions to watch the movements of all guerilla bands in our front, and to bring speedily any information he might obtain.

During the remaining months of our stay he was almost ubiquitous. Every scouting-party that we sent out in any direction, though entirely without notice to him, was pretty sure to meet him with important information, just when information was most needed.

This part of his work was done perfectly, but he seemed to regard his relation with us as a warrant for unending private iniquities. After his own code of morals he was a strictly virtuous man, but his code was of an extremely loose and pliable character. It is probably safe to say that he never murdered a Union man, and that, unless sorely tempted by the difference in value of the animals, he never forcibly exchanged horses with a Union widow; neither, I believe, did he commit any offence against a known Rebel when there was a probability of his being found out and caught; but the complaints that came to us of the manner in which he vented his private wrongs and carried on the feuds of his ancestors gave us frequent annoyance. Sometimes it seemed necessary to recall his commission and declare him an outlaw, but just then there would transpire some particularly brilliant achievement that showed him invaluable for our purposes.

More than once, when our patrols reported the immediate presence of the enemy, Pat would turn up with the assurance that it was only so-and-so’s “band,” who had come into the neighborhood on a visiting or a marauding expedition, but with no intention of putting themselves in our way; and invariably we found his report to be correct. Indeed, so frequently did this happen that we became almost too confident in his assistance, and when an excitable picket shot at a donkey or a cow in the night-time, although the patrol of the guard went through the usual routine of investigation, we felt that there could be no serious attack or Dixon would have notified us.

How he obtained his information we could not guess, and his own account of the matter was never satisfactory; but I believe that no considerable force of the enemy ever crossed the Memphis and Charleston Railroad (the whole State’s width to the south of us) without our being speedily notified; and through this means we were several times enabled to telegraph to Columbus early information of contemplated raids,—information that was not always heeded, as the surprise of Paducah (on the Ohio River) several days after our warning sufficiently proved.

One ambition of this worthy man had to remain unsatisfied. How little this was due to the fact that we at the headquarters were all perfectly mounted, modesty makes it improper to state here; but in our frequent meetings as we rode outside the lines, he rarely failed to tell of some particularly fine horse belonging to some particularly bad man and especially virulent Rebel, which it would really be a virtue to “confisticate.” The worthy fellow was not satisfied with his own conspicuous appropriations; he would fain have mounted our regiments on the weedy screws which the Rebel impressments had left for the horsing of the crippled region of Western Tennessee. Possibly, too, he may have had some lurking fear that there was a suspicion of iniquity in his thefts, and longed for the reassurance of similar conduct on the part of true men like ourselves.

It was, of course, not long after the commencement of this active campaign against the rights of ownership, that we began to receive assurances on every hand that unless we could do something to repress Pat Dixon’s vagabondage an outraged people would take the law into their own hands, and avenge the wrongs he had inflicted. With a laudable desire to prevent unnecessary bloodshed, I told him one day of the state of feeling against him, urging him to be more circumspect and to conduct himself like a decent man, else he would be hanged the first time he was caught; intimating, too, that it would be improper for us to continue to employ him to such needless injury to an inoffensive people. His reply was characteristic.

“Inoffensive, which? Mebbe you know these people an’ mebbe you don’t. I do! and a dern’der lot of unhung cutthroats an’ hoss-thieves you can’t find nowheres. As for hangin’, you needn’t give yourself no worryment ’bout that. They’re safe enough to hang me if they ketch me, an’ I guess I sha’n’t hang no higher if I go right on my own gait. If you don’t want to employ me you needn’t; theys enough corn an’ bacon in th’ Obion bottom to keep me awhile yet, and money ain’t no ’count down here; but, by King! if I kin git a chance to tell you anything that them ’uns don’t want you to know, you bet your skin I’ll do it, an’ you kin trust me every time, for I ain’t goin’ to lie,—not to your side, not if I know it. Why, you talk to me about inikities. I don’t want to do no man any hurt; but my old dad he was conscripted, an’ me an’ my brother Jake had to take to the bresh to save ourselves, an’ then Jake he was shot in cold blood right afore my eyes, an’ I made up my mind then an’ there that I wouldn’t give no quarter to the whole State of West Tannisy till this war was over an’ ther’ was some stronger hand than mine to do jestis an’ to furnish revenge. That’s all I’ve got to say about it. You needn’t give yourself no oneasiness ’bout my doin’s, I’ll answer for the hull on ’em; an’ p’r’aps the last thing you’ll hear of Pat Dixon will be that he’s hangin’ to a tree somewheres down Troy way. I know I’m booked for that if I’m ketched, and till I am ketched I’m goin’ my own gait.”

We had become too much accustomed to this state of feeling among the scanty Union population of the Southwest to be so shocked by it as we ought to have been, and it was not without sympathy with Dixon’s wrongs that I let him go, with an earnest caution that he should mend his ways, if only for his own sake.

It remains only to say that he did go his own gait, and that he went it with a desperation and an Élan that I have never known equalled; and that, months later, after our snug quarters at Union City had been turned over to a feeble band of home-guards, word came that they had been burned to the ground, and that Pat Dixon, betrayed at last into the hands of the enemy, had been hanged in the woods near Troy. We could find no fault with the retribution that had overtaken him; for, viewed with the eyes of his executioners, he had richly merited it: but we had learned to like him for his frank and generous qualities, and to make full allowance for the degree to which his rough, barbaric nature had been outraged and inflamed by the wrongs inflicted on his family.

A returning patrol one afternoon led to the parade-ground a sorry horse drawing an open wagon in which were a man and a woman. The woman had a cold-blooded, stolid look, and her eyes were filled with the overflowing hatred we so often inspired among her sex at the South. Her husband was dressed in black, and wore a rather scrupulously brushed but over-old silk hat. In his hand was a ponderous and bulging cotton umbrella.

They had been taken “under suspicious circumstances” at a house a few miles outside the lines,—the suspicion attaching only to the fact that they were not members of the family and seemed to have no particular business in that region. When asked for an explanation, the woman said she had nothing to say but that her husband was a blind clergyman intending to fulfil an engagement to preach, and that she had driven him, as was her habit. He said nothing. It was a rule of our system to follow Hoyle’s instructions, and “when in doubt to take the trick”: this pair were remanded to the guard-house.

As they turned away, the reverend gentleman said, in a feeble voice, that if he could see me alone later in the evening, when he had recovered from the shock of his capture, I might be willing to talk with him. In the evening the Hun repaired to the dismantled warehouse where the prisoners were lodged, to hold conversation with the new-comers. When he came to the clergyman he found him so low spoken that their talk fell almost to a whisper, but it was whispered that he was to be taken alone, and subsequent disclosures led to his being brought to headquarters. He there informed me that he was a minister of the Methodist church, Canadian by birth and education, but married to a lady of that region, and had been for some years engaged there in his capacity as a circuit preacher. He was quite blind, and found it impossible to make his rounds without being driven.

His sympathies were with the North, and he was burning to make himself useful in the only way left him by his infirmity. His wife was of a suspecting disposition, and their peaceful consorting required that she should always accompany him; but, unfortunately, she was a violent secessionist, and he had been compelled, in the interest of the peaceful consorting above named, to acknowledge sympathy with her views, and to join her in her revilings of the Union army.

All this made his position difficult, yet he believed that, if the opportunity were given him, he could hide his intention even from her, and could gather for us much useful information.

He was a welcome visitor at the houses of the faithful, far and near, and warmed their hearts with frequent and feeling exhortation, as he gathered his little meetings at his nightly stopping-places. He was now about starting for the southern circuit, and had appointments to preach and to pray at every town between us and Bolivar.

Evidently, if this man were honest in his intentions, he could be of great service, but I suggested the difficulty that having once started for an appointed round he could not return to bring us any information he might receive. To this he replied that his wife believed him to be in Forrest’s service, and that he could at any time come as a spy into our lines.

It seemed a very questionable case, but, after consultation with Voisin and the Hun, it was determined to give him a trial, to prevent his wife from seeing more than was necessary of our position, and to believe so much as we liked of the information he might give us. The conditions of the engagement were agreed upon, and after a severe public admonition, and threats especially appalling to his wife, he was sent outside the lines, with hints of the serious consequences that would follow his second capture.

We were never quite sure that his wife was wrong in crediting him with complicity with Forrest; but the worst that could be said of him (and this was very likely true) was that he was pre-eminently a man of peace, and if he gave information to both sides, it was always information in compliance with the injunctions of his sacred calling. The Rebel forces several times crossed into Tennessee, and came toward us in numbers that indicated foul intentions, but, from the time our pious friend first visited us, they invariably withdrew without an engagement. Frequently small expeditions of our own forces went scouting to the southward, and were checked and turned back by the reports of this benevolent man.

He may have kept us from the successful fulfilment of some bloody intentions, but we had occasion to know from other sources that he sometimes kept small detachments of our troops from falling in with overpowering numbers of the enemy. Be the theory what it may, from November until February there was no conflict of arms in all the counties we traversed, and neither side advanced to within deadly range of the other.

The processes of this emissary were hidden and curious. He was employed in a much more regulated manner than Dixon, and we generally knew his whereabouts. Every interview had with him, either within our own camp or when we were abroad, had to be so skilfully managed that no suspicion, even in the eyes of his catlike wife, should attach to him. He never came into our lines except as an unwilling prisoner, and was never sent without them without dire admonition as to the consequences of his return.

On one occasion Pat Dixon reported that a detachment of Forrest’s command, about three hundred strong, had crossed the railroad and was moving north in the direction of our camp. At this time the preacher was near us, and I had an interview with him. He doubted the report, but would investigate. I told him we would start the next day, with five hundred men, in the direction of Trenton,—where he was to hold a prayer-meeting at the house of one of Forrest’s captains. The meeting was held, and after it was over, the subject of the advance was talked over very freely by the officers present, he sitting in a rapt state of unconsciousness—his thoughts on higher things—at the chimney-corner. Pleading an early appointment at McKenzie’s Station for the following day, he left as soon as the moon was up, and drove to the house of a friend in the village. His wife supposed that he was coming with a false report to lead us into a trap laid for us.

We arrived at McKenzie’s at one o’clock in the morning, after a detestably cold, hard ride, and took up our quarters in a half-finished and half-furnished house, where we struggled the whole night through in the endeavor to get heat out of a fire of wet dead-wood. Early in the morning the Hun started out, in his fiercest mood, with a small escort, seeking for information and hunting up suspicious characters. At breakfast-time he came upon a large family comfortably seated at table, with our preacher and his wife as guests.

He was asked to “sit by.” “Thank you; I have come for more serious business. Who is at the head of this house? I should like to see you alone, sir.” The trembling, invalided paterfamilias was taken into an adjoining room, and put through the usual course of questions as to his age, place of birth, occupation, condition as to literacy, the number of negroes owned, the amount of land, what relatives in the Rebel army, to what extent a sympathizer with the Rebellion, when he had last seen any Rebel soldiers or scouts or guerillas or suspicious persons of any description, and so on, through the tortuous and aggravating list that only a lawyer could invent. Questions and answers were taken down in writing. The sterner questions were spoken in a voice audible to the terror-stricken family in the adjoining room. The man, of course, communicated nothing, and probably knew nothing, of the least consequence. He was sent to a third room and kept under guard. His case disposed of, his wife was examined in like manner, and then the other members of the family. Finally, the coast being clear, our emissary was sent for. He came into the room chuckling with delight over this skilful exercise of the art of deceit, in which he was himself such an adept, and laying his hand on the Hun’s arm, said, “My dear fellow, I respect you. This has been the most brilliant dodge I ever knew,—capital,—capital!” And he then went on to recount all that he had heard the evening before. A large detachment of Forrest’s command was advancing under Faulkner’s leadership, and they doubtless had by this time a full report of our position, for he had met acquaintance on the road who had reported it to him. If we were able to engage a body of three thousand men without artillery, we might find them that night in Trenton,—he was confident that that was about their number.

The family were now notified that they had been guilty of a great offence in harboring a known spy of the enemy; but they insisted that they knew him only as a devout and active minister, and had no suspicion, nor could they believe, that he had the least knowledge of or interest in either army. With due warning as to the consequences of a repetition of their crime, they were allowed to return to their breakfast, and their guest was brought under guard to headquarters.

Being satisfied, after a close examination of the report, that it would be imprudent to remain so far from our camp, which could be best reached from Trenton by another road, we left a party of observation, and returned to Union City, directing our scout to go to the vicinity of Trenton and bring to our detachment any information he might obtain. Twelve hours after our arrival home, the detachment returned with the news that Faulkner, with a large force, had moved toward Mayfield, Kentucky, and the event proved that every item of the intelligence we had received had been substantially correct.

In this manner we were enabled to learn pretty definitely the character of any movement of the enemy anywhere in Western Tennessee, and so far as we had opportunity to investigate the reports they generally proved to be essentially true. These two scouts were worth more as a source of information, than would have been two regiments of cavalry in active service. Sometimes our Methodist friend acted under definite orders, but more often only according to his own judgment of what was necessary.

A few days before Christmas we received word that Forrest in person was in Jackson, with a large force, and we moved against him with nearly the whole body of our troops, under the command of old A. J. himself. We reached Jackson at night, after three days’ hard marching, only to find that Forrest’s army had left that morning, destroying the bridges over the swollen rivers and making organized pursuit impossible. We took up quarters for some days in the town, where we enjoyed the peculiarly lovely climate of the “sunny South” with the thermometer seven degrees below zero, six inches of snow on the ground, and a howling wind blowing. Our own mess was very snugly entertained at the house of a magnate, where we had an opportunity to study the fitness of even the best Southern architecture for an Arctic winter climate.

On New Year’s day, as we were sitting at a sumptuous dinner, and mitigating so far as we could the annoyance to our hosts of being invaded by a rollicking party of Northern officers, Voisin, who had been called out, returned to the table to tell me that a man and a woman would like to see me in my room. I was not prompt to respond, and asked who they were. He replied, “O, who can tell? I suppose somebody with a complaint that our men have ’taken some hams of meat’ [“meat” being the Tennessee vulgate for hog flesh only], or something of that sort; the man seemed to have something the matter with his eyes.” And he gave me a large and expressive wink.

Ensconced, with such comfort as large and rattling windows permitted, before our blazing fire, sat our serene Methodist friend and his sullen wife. Taking me aside, he told me that he had passed the previous evening at a private house between Jackson and Bolivar in religious exercises, which were attended by Forrest and officers of his command. After the devotions there was much cheerful and unrestrained talk as to the plans and prospects of the future campaign, disclosing the fact that as there seemed no chance of doing efficient service in Tennessee, the whole body would move at once to Central Mississippi and operate in connection with the army in Georgia. This report, which we had no reason to disbelieve, decided A. J. to abandon a difficult and unpromising pursuit, and to return to Union City and Columbus. We found, on our return, a communication from the headquarters at Memphis to the effect that Forrest had crossed the railroad and gone far south into Mississippi.

We had no further service of importance or interest in this region. “Jackson’s Purchase” was thenceforward quite free from any considerable body of the enemy; and when our clergyman found, a few weeks later, that we were all ordered to the south, he came for a settlement of his accounts, saying that he had been able to deceive his wife only up to the time of our interview at Jackson, and as his life was no longer safe in the country, he must depart for the more secure region of his former home in Canada,—where let us hope that he has been allowed to answer the behests of his sacred vocation with a mind single to his pious duties, and that domestic suspicion no longer clouds his happy hearthstone.

Happily, neither A. J. nor Forrest himself had further occasion for his peaceful intervention, the fortunate absence of which may have had to do with the notable encounter between these two generals at Tupelo.