CHAPTER XII.
When we reached Jackson the previous day I noted a flat by the side of the railroad bridge. I was thinking to cross Pearl River by that means, so I started to the right towards the railroad bridge. On my way down the street a lady was standing over a tub of whiskey with a dipper in her hand. She said to me, "Poor fellow, are you wounded?" I said, "Yes." She dipped up a dipper full of whiskey, which I drank. It had a good effect on my shattered nerves and did not cause me the least dizziness. It was the medicine I surely needed. On arriving at the River, I found the flat was gone, the railroad bridge was the only chance left me to cross. I crawled up the embankment and found that the cross ties were too far apart for me to step it, owing to my contracted leaders, so I concluded to "coon it" on my hands and knees on the stringers, holding onto the rail.
The bridge is a long one and very high, Jackson being built on a high bluff. When about half way across I heard a great deal of noise and reports of fire arms; I heard bullets whizzing by. Finally bullets were hitting the trestle beneath me and in front of me. Looking back I saw at a distance of about four hundred yards a force of the enemy, which I judged to be about half a regiment, coming up the lowlands in a flank around Jackson. My first impulse was, can I make it across, or must I surrender? I concluded to take the chances, and continued to cross. Bullets were striking beneath me, and in front, splinters were flying. One ball hit the rail about six inches in front of my hand. They were gaining on me fast, when at last I reached the other side, laying myself flat on the track, I rolled over, down about an eighteen foot embankment. Thus being protected from the enemy's bullets, I entered the swamp not far beside the road leading to Branton, I noted a large hollow poplar tree. It must have been four or five feet in diameter. I crawled in, I felt faint and weak, had not eaten anything that day. I must have fainted; when presently I heard the sound of artillery and musketry to my right across the river and the noise of an empty wagon coming from towards Branton. I took a reconnoitering look, and saw Jackson on fire and a wagon driven by a negro, holding the lines over four splendid mules, coming towards the city. I took my stand in the road, pistol in hand. The following conversation ensued:
"Halt. Where are you going?"
"To Jackson. Marse Richard sent me to fotch his things. He is afraid the Yankees would cotch him."
"How will you get across?"
"Goes on the flat, sah."
"There is no flat now."
"Yes there is, and Marse Richard——"
"Turn the head of the mules towards Branton, or you are a dead Negro"—aiming at him as I spoke. He exclaimed, "Don't shoot Marster, I'll do as you say." He turned the mules towards where he came from. I crawled behind in the wagon, pistol in hand, and at a gallop all the way for twelve miles. We entered Branton in the early part of the night. The people were still up at the Hotel. The excitement ran high about the enemies capturing Jackson. Branton was a nice little village. The negro proved to be a run-away. Had stolen the team from the quartermaster and running with it to the enemy. The lady of the hotel came to me saying, "Are you wounded?" I stated my condition, and she sympathized with me, saying, "Poor fellow, I expect you need something to eat." I surely did, for I was more dead than alive, after having passed such an eventful day. I ate a hearty supper. I was given a shirt. She bandaged my arm, which was smarting badly. She furnished me a room and a bottle of mustang linament to rub myself. My clothes which were full of mud were washed and dried by a large fire. The following morning, I felt really refreshed. It is unnecessary to say that I slept well that night. At an early hour that morning, the alarm of "The Yankees are coming. They are only four miles from here and Johnston is retreating towards Canton." Everybody that could get away, left. The quartermaster had an old broken down horse, which he tendered me for having saved his fine team, and I left the town on horse back, thanking my hostess for all her kindness. About two miles from Branton I met up with three men from my Company, viz, A. P. Heath, Jackson O'Quinn and Harmon Fields. They were not in the fight, having been on the sick list and not fit for duty, so we traveled together for some distance. We reached a settlement, which from appearance, belonged to well-to-do people. The gentleman of the premises was standing at the gate leading to the house. I said to my comrades that I would have to rest and recuperate until I got well, so I addressed myself to the proprietor, "Sir, can you take care of a wounded Confederate?" He put his hand in his hip pocket in quick motion, as if to draw a pistol, but instead drew a small slate and pencil, handed it to me with a motion to write my request, which I did. He rubbed it out and wrote swiftly in a scholarly style, "Nothing I have is too good for a Confederate soldier. Walk in—all of you." His name was Williams, unfortunately deaf and dumb, but very intelligent. His family consisted of a wife and two daughters, and all seemed to be well educated and comfortably situated. They were very solicitous in their attentions to us. The girls played on the piano while I entertained the old man, by writing on his slate my experience of the previous day. He looked at me in wonder, and occasionally took hold of my hand and shook it. I remained his guest for nearly a week, until we located our Company, and where to meet it. I got entirely well, my arm was healing nicely, under the care of Mrs. Williams. Our forces had located at Canton. He sent us mule-back through Pearl River Swamp to the Canton road, while I rode my horse. He refused to take any remuneration for anything he had done for us, so I sent back my horse with a note and begged him to accept the same and thanking them all for what they had done for us.