Part 8

We waited all the morning, and about one in the afternoon started, still moving northwardly toward Paducah. The road was hard and good; the sun came out, drying our wet clothes, and everything seemed promising and pleasant. As we passed the first house, the family appeared in front of the door, and waved a little flag. It was the first flag we had seen in Tennessee. My squadron, which led the column, broke into rapturous applause as they caught sight of the starry emblem; and as each of the others came up, wondering what could have caused the commotion, they repeated the cheers. A cavalcade of Union men accompanied us, and as we approached their homes, they would dash ahead and notify their families that we were coming. At every house the inmates appeared, waving handkerchiefs and clapping hands; and at several the long hidden flag was brought out to help in welcoming "the Union soldiers," who cheered the flag whenever it was displayed. Thus our march went on, more like a gay, triumphal procession than a retreat. We stopped at a little house, and a venerable matron, with her grand-daughter, came to the gate and welcomed us. The old lady shook hands with all who were near, and solemnly hoped that God would be with us; and the younger one laughed and cried. She hoped, she said, that we would not think her bold or crazy; but she felt as if we were friends, and it was the first time she had been safe for months. Her husband and father were then hiding in the woods from guerrillas. She had two brothers in the rebel army, and, she added, with a bitter emphasis I cannot describe, that they were rebels, and we might capture them or kill them; but she wished we would _kill them_.

We went on and descended into the valley of the Obion. The sun was sinking in the west, as our column wound through the great trees and came upon Lockridge Mill. On the right, I saw a large white house surrounded by a garden; on the left a barn yard with an eight-rail fence; in front and beyond us, the Obion and the mill.

"We will stay here to-night," said the major.

"Left into line. March. Be prepared to leave at a moment's notice," I said to my men, "and to saddle up in the dark. Break ranks."

The men scattered through the yard, picketing their horses. The second squadron picketed theirs on the outside of the yard, and the third went back to the farms on the edge of the valley, to act as a rear guard.

"Where will you put our horses, Bischoff?"

"At this tree in the yard, captain," said Bischoff.

"Very well; I must see if there are any pickets wanted between us and the rear guard." And I turned my horse and rode slowly back.

It was a noble valley, smooth as a floor, and covered with huge oaks and elms. I came to the third squadron; they had dismounted; their horses were tied to the fences; their lieutenant had gone out with their pickets; and their captain came up and laughingly said he had taken a prisoner, and introduced me to a lieutenant of an Illinois regiment, who had just ridden in. He was a very handsome and intelligent young man, and informed us that he was a Tennessian, and had come to see if recruits could not be found there. He seemed greatly elated at being back in his own State, and as we rode along, I remarked to myself how hopeful and happy he was. We arrived at the house and dismounted; I gave my horse to one of the men, and went in to introduce Mr. Crawford to the major. Him we found in an upper room. He had taken off his jacket and was seated, comfortably smoking. I introduced the lieutenant, and then went out, intending to post the pickets in front. The men were on some logs opposite the house, finishing their supper; the sun had set, and the light was fading and growing hazy amid the great trees.

I walked across the little garden, and laid my hand on the gate. As I did so, I heard a yell toward the rear; I turned quickly, and far up among the trees I saw three of the rear guard. Their horses were on a gallop; they waved their caps wildly, and shouted something which sounded like "saddle up." At the first glance I thought they were messengers; but, at the second, I saw running beside them a horse _with an empty saddle_. I knew what that meant.

"Saddle up, and fall in," I shouted to the men; "and you men in the house call the major; tell him we are attacked."

I looked for my horse, but he had disappeared. I rushed to the barnyard, and there saw the man who had held him.

"Hamelder," I cried, "what have you done with my horse?"

"Bischoff took him, captain."

I hurried to the tree. Bischoff, knowing the horse would have a night's work, had seized on the moment of my going into the house to unsaddle and rub him off. But Bischoff stood faithful at his post in the confusion; while every other man was hurrying for his own horse, Bischoff was saddling mine. As I came up, he held the horse and stirrup for me to mount as coolly as though we were at a parade.

"Never mind this," I cried, "I can mount without this nonsense; saddle your own horse and be quick--be quick." But my buffalo, rolled up as it had been unbuckled from the saddle, lay on the ground, and Bischoff stooped for it. "Throw it away," I cried, "saddle your horse and come out of this yard, or you're lost."

I turned; all of the squadron had gone out--I was the last; and as my horse dashed over the broken fence, Bischoff was left alone.

My men were in line, but a disorderly stream of flying men and riderless horses was pouring past. I looked round for the major, but he was not in sight, and I found myself the ranking officer there. "I must act, it is no time to wait for orders," I said, as I looked up the valley, and saw the head of the rebel column. They were coming on a gallop, their shot guns and rifles blazed away, and their wild yells were louder than the volleys they fired. Between us were the last of the rear guard and the horses of those who had fallen, "wild and disorderly." Turning the other way, I saw the river and the bridge. "We must check their advance," I thought, "and then cross the river and tear up the bridge; it is our only hope. I will charge them." I touched my good horse as I drew my sabre, and he flew round. I was giving the orders, "Draw sabre. By platoons. Left wheel," and the squadron was executing them, when the men of the second squadron rushed franticly round the barnyard fence and into my line. In an instant all was confusion. There was no time to restore order, the rebels were not the width of a city block distant, and their buck shot flew thickly, wounding men and horses, while there rose the thundering sound of cavalry at full speed. I still had a hope of the bridge. In another instant they would be upon us. "About," I cried, "gallop and form across the bridge." As we went by the yard, Bischoff had not come out. "He has sacrificed himself for me," I said; "but I cannot leave my command to save him, though he were my brother."

Across the narrow bridge we went safely, though it swayed and trembled under the tramp of galloping horses. As the men wheeled and reformed, I moved to the right and looked back. Hitherto I had seen but the head of their column, and had formed no idea of its strength. Now I saw, far up the valley, a solid unbroken column of perhaps a thousand men. Between them and the bridge were a few men, and many flying horses, which ran madly. The enemy were armed with guns, and my men had but sabres and pistols. The captain of the second squadron had been at the bridge, trying vainly to rally his men; but they had gone, and mine were the only ones left. "All is lost now," I said; "I will not keep my men here to be sacrificed for these runaways." I gave the order, and we were galloping down the valley, the pursuing foe close upon us.

But, to return to Bischoff. He rode that day a fiery, little, black horse, that became nearly frantic as he heard the rushing sound of the enemy's horses. Bischoff threw the saddle on him, and as he buckled the girth, the rebels appeared opposite the gate. There was no time to waste then. Quick as lightning he drew out his knife, and cutting the reins by which the horse was tied, swung, himself into the saddle. The little horse wheeled. By cutting the reins, Bischoff had lost all control of him, but he seemed to know precisely what was needed. Instead of going to the gate, he turned and rushed at the fence. It was higher than himself, and Bischoff thought they were lost; but the little horse gave a tremendous bound, and came bravely over. They were now neck and neck with the rebels; it was a race to the bridge. The little horse won, and dashed over ahead of their foremost horses. But he was only ahead--there were not six feet between them, and he crossed amid a shower of balls, and almost hidden by the smoke of their rifles. Bischoff lay flat on the saddle, and trusted everything to the horse. The bridge crossed, he soon widened the gap, and in a few minutes bore Bischoff triumphantly among his friends.

It was a fearful ride across that valley. The road, level and straight, did not shelter us from the enemy. Trees had fallen across it, and there were deep bog holes, into which horses plunged and fell. As you rode, you came upon a man whose horse had fallen in leaping a tree, or mired in struggling through a mud hole. Here was one who had risen, and was trying to escape to the neighboring woods, and there another, who could not extricate himself from his fallen horse. As I looked back and watched the fate of those I knew, I saw the first of the enemy, as they came up, fire upon our prostrate men. It looked as though no quarter was given. Before I had ridden far, I came upon the captain of the second squadron standing in the road. He had been wounded and unhorsed. I endeavored to pull up and take him behind me; but my horse, excited and fractious, reared and plunged so that I could not stop. I called to the captain to take another horse, led by one of the men. He did so, but in a few moments was thrown, and before he could rise, found himself surrounded and a prisoner.

At length we emerged from this, to us dark vale, and felt our horses tread firm ground. We had gained a little on the enemy, and were just beyond the reach of their guns. I got the men formed once more into column, and the retreat, though still at a gallop, became orderly. I asked after the other officers; two had escaped and were with us; three were captured, and the major had been shot near the bridge, falling beside one of my men. I was therefore again in command, and had to determine speedily on a plan.

There had been with us a farmer, named Gibbs, mounted on a white mule, which ran like a deer. Gibbs was perfectly cool, and when we came out of the valley, he had pulled out a plug of tobacco and taken a customary bite, with the remark that he guessed we were all right now. I asked Gibbs if he knew the road to Hickman, on the Mississippi. To which he replied: "Oh, yes." "Then come with me," I said, "and lead us there;" and I took him to the head of the column. Telling the sergeant who led to follow Gibbs, I fell out and began to drop back to the rear. Unfortunately, the white mule would not lead, and in a few moments Gibbs rejoined me. I then took a couple of young men, who were also escaping with us, up to the head, and giving them the same directions, again fell back. Unluckily, excited and riding on a gallop by moonlight, they passed the Hickman, and continued on the Paducah road.

Gibbs fell out of the column, and rejoined me, as it passed. I told him he had better not run this unnecessary risk; but he said he had been offered $200 for his mule, and would risk anything with it. Bischoff also fell out, and we three rode at the rear. We did not ride so long. Suddenly from the bushes and woods on the side of the road, there was a flash; and bang! bang! came the fire of our hidden foes. In an instant every horse was at full speed, rushing by. My own gave a wild bound. Poor Tennessee! he had been acting nobly from the first, and I thought he was only excited by the firing. My attention was chiefly upon the men, but as I gathered up the curb-rein to check him, I noticed that it was gone on the side next to the firing. Still I did not think he had been hit. But he put his head down, and rushed between Gibbs and Bischoff. They caught him by the bridle, but in a moment he had dragged them half off their saddles. I told them to let go, and he dashed forward, striking madly against the horse in front. The concussion sent us over to the ditch, but he did not stop. With his head down, and running straight as an arrow, he flew by the entire column. I returned my sabre to the scabbard, and winding the snaffle-rein round my wrists, made every effort to stop him. It was in vain. I exerted all my strength; I used all the art I was master of, or that Mr. Rarey had taught; I drew his head from side to side, till his mouth touched the stirrups; but he went on, on, on at the same furious pace. The road lay through thick woods and down a series of steep hills. On one of these it turned. The horse refused to follow its windings, and kept straight on. It was like a locomotive rushing through the woods. There were two trees before me, close together. On he went, dashing between them. He struck against one and reeled, but did not fall. Beyond, and on the steepest of the hill, lay a fallen tree. His head was down almost to his knees, and I knew he could not see. I made a great, a last effort to raise him. It failed--the tree seemed under me--there was a crash--a blow--and I lay on the ground, the horse struggling on top of me.

I tried, vainly, to rise and remount; but my right arm hung useless, and I felt dizzy and weak, while my good horse still struggled on the ground. Yet the enemy were coming. I dragged myself quickly down the bank, at the foot of which ran a little stream. As I reached it, I heard the gallop of horses on the hill above me. "My sabre," I said, "must not fall into their hands." I unbuckled it quickly, and gave it a last look. It was the parting gift of my best friends, and had been my constant companion by day and by night. I could not bear to part with it thus. For an instant I hesitated. "Perhaps they will not see me," I said; "but no, the risk is too great; whatever happens to me, they shall not have the sabre." A log lay across the brook. I leaned forward, and under its shadow, threw the sabre in. It splashed in the dark water and was gone. "Shall I throw my pistol after it? No! it will be but a pistol more for the Confederacy. Here they come." I stretched myself close beside the bank, and the party of horsemen galloped by.

IX.

THE ESCAPE.

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:

"The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung;"

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.