So passed the time till a bright light gleamed through the trees toward the east. The sentinel saw it first. "Is that a fire, captain?" he asked. No; it was the morning star. Slowly it seemed to climb the trees, moving steadily from branch to branch, till it beamed from the clear sky above. Then came a belt of pale silver light, which grew brighter and brighter, until it turned to crimson; and then rose the sun. Our watch is over. "Call up the men, sergeant; order the second platoon across; and take a man and go two miles up the road, and see if there are any rebels there."
We passed a busy day. Parties were sent out, up and down the brook, to see if there were bridges or fords near us, and to ascertain where the cross-roads ran; others for forage; and one toward Paris, to watch any movement there. Guards were placed to stop persons on the road, so that no information might be carried to the enemy. I explored the banks of the brook near us, to make sure that no party could cross and attack us unexpectedly during the coming night. Late in the afternoon I had my horse unsaddled, spread my buffalo on the floor, pulled off my boots, and laid down for a good sleep before my night-watch commenced. Hardly down, ere an officer arrived from camp. Another squadron was coming to relieve us, and we were to return immediately. The men who had been on duty all day were asleep; their horses were all down too; our arrangements were all nicely completed for the night; but we must go. "Call in the videttes and saddle up," were the orders; and soon we were marching back. So ended my first experience in guarding bridges, and my care of the bridge over the Holly Fork.
There is in our school "Readers" a certain lesson about a vagrant little brook, wherein is told that "the glossy-green and coral clusters of the holly flung down reflections in rich profusion on the little pool visited by a ray of softer sunshine," etc. These words (if I recollect them rightly) were printed in different "Readers" in different ways; sometimes a hyphen between glossy-green, sometimes a comma; and again no mark whatever. A fearful wilderness of words it was, in which scholars and teachers, and even principals, at examinations, and other important times and seasons, have gone astray: whoever then correctly construed "glossy green" and "visited," could do what no one else could. While standing guard at the bridge, there came to me the memories of the reading lesson—of the one who succeeded and the many who failed—of disconcerted faces and puzzled looks, and the Holly Fork became associated with the lesson, as hereafter (should I ever return to North Moore street) the lesson will, doubtless, call to mind the Holly Fork.
VII. SCOUTING.
It is a pleasant Spring morning, and I am ordered to take my company and "scout to and beyond Conyersville, with two days' rations." There is a stir and bustle through our tents, and great delight at the thought of going out. Some are bringing up horses from the picket ropes; others are rolling blankets, and strapping them behind the saddles; others are packing away coffee, pork and hard biscuit in a pair of rude saddle-bags, which we have made from an old tent, and now carry on a led horse. Soon Bischoff leads his horse and mine up to the tent, and soon after the first sergeant reports all ready. The men are drawn up in line; they "count off by fours;" the order is given, "by two's to the right," and we are marching slowly over the high hills and through the tall oaks which belt the Tennessee.
Though it is a March morning, the air is as soft and balmy as it will be in New York next May; and in the distance, the opening buds throw a mist-like haze over the forests. Here and there a crow starts from some tall tree, and caws familiarly as he flies away; and high over head, the chicken hawk sails round and round as we have often seen him do at home. When first we came here last February, there were robins in these woods and many Northern birds, who seemed sad and songless, and behaved like invalids passing the winter at the South. The meadow lark spread her wings languidly, and the robins sat listless on the apple trees, as though they were home-sick, and, like us, longed to fly back to their Northern nests. The blackbirds alone kept up their spirits, flying around and across such fields as they could find in rapid, veering, fitful flight—
"And here in spring the veeries sing
The song of long ago."