Sketches of the War / A Series of Letters to the North Moore Street School of New York

by Charles C. Nott

"I think it was farther on, captain," says a corporal, "that I saw your horse down—I think it was there, and you must have crawled down to the brook at that place."

I will try the corporal's place first, and I walk rapidly down there. I reach the bank of the brook, and my heart fails me, for the brook is dry; its waters cannot hide the sabre now. I look above and below, and there is no sabre to be seen. But this is not the place—there is no log here—I knew it was higher up; so I jump down into the bed of the stream, and walk eagerly up. Above me is a point, and when I turn that point I am certain I shall see the log—and perhaps the sabre. I reach it, and am pushing through the bushes that overhang the brook, when a sergeant calls out, "Here it is." Yes, there is the log, and beneath it, just as I threw it in, lies the sabre. Rusted and broken and never to be drawn again, it is a thousand times more precious than when, burnished and bright, I first received it. I know it is valueless, and that its beauty and its usefulness are gone, but the happiest moment of my soldier-life is when I find my ruined sabre.

In the twilight of evening we return to Buena Vista. Very anxious have I been for the last two hours, and very anxious seem the men, as they stand round their saddled horses, at our prolonged absence. I have heard of a party of guerrillas in front and of another on our right, and the men have heard of a third in the rear. Our horses are too tired to march far, and we have already been here too long. The left seems clear, and to the left is Lockridge Mill, and our road back—but too many have already guessed that we are going there, and the men have asked too many questions to keep our destination a secret, as hitherto it always has been. It is such situations as this that make the cavalry service so interesting; and in its miniature strategy is a constant charm. The question, What shall be done? must be answered quickly, and one needs move skilfully when he is surrounded by difficulties. Here the roads cross somewhat like a letter X. Up the first we marched in the morning, and up the second I have just come; the third leads to Lockridge Mill, and in the fourth we have no real interest. The men mount, wheel into column; I order "trot," "trot out," and we move rapidly up the fourth road. No sooner out of sight of the houses at our starting place, than we come down to the slowest of walks. Whenever a house appears, we are seen on a trot; and whenever the house is passed, we find ourselves on a walk. Thus we appear to be going rapidly up this road, when we are in fact moving slowly. Some three miles up is a watering place, the only one, and there our thirsty horses must drink. As we pass the last house, its pack of dogs bark, and its inmates come out and look at us go by. Then we go down, down, down into a damp, cold, wooded ravine. In its depths we find a muddy stream, and the horses plunge their nostrils deep, and quaff it thirstily. We come out on the other side, and halting, dismount.

Nothing could seem more strange or be more unusual than halting in such a spot, and at such an hour; yet no man asks a question, or appears surprised. Those who have been at the cross-roads all day, gather in little groups and talk; and those who have been with me, lie down and doze. Wonderful are the effects of discipline and experience! A year ago how agitated would these same men have been, and how discussed this inexplicable delay! Now they are undisturbed, and leave it all to me. The videttes ride in and whisper reports, and ride out again with whispered instructions; yet this man relights his pipe, and that one goes on with his story. At length the Tennessee bed time is passed, and the videttes from the front "come in." The orders are given, "Be silent;" "Hold your sabres so that they will not clank;" "By file to the right;" and we are retracing our steps to Buena Vista. Riding by file makes a less intense noise, though the column is stretched out to twice its usual length, and the noise lasts twice as long. We mount the hill noiselessly, and I look with anxiety at the house. Do I see a light? No, 'tis but the moon glimmering on the window panes. We approach it—the dogs are as silent as the men. I am before it, and check Ida to her slowest walk—the column behind me hardly moves, and the horses seem to tread lightly. We are past, and no cur has yelped or person seen us—our first strategic movement is successful. "It was done first rate," whispers the sergeant behind me; "we got ahead of the dogs that time."

On our left there is a corn field, with the tall Southern corn still standing. We halt, and two men dismount, and, in the shadow of a tree, take down the high rail fence. The column, turning in, passes up a corn row to the other side of the field; the two men, remaining, carefully replace the fence. The shadow of the tree hides our trail, and we have left no other sign behind us. On the other side of the field is a little basin, unploughed and grass-covered, wherein our horses are picketed. As I ride around it, I find they are completely hidden away; it is perfect for our purpose. The sentinels stand on the rising ground behind us, and in the clear moonlight, see over a wide expanse of fields; and here we lie down and securely sleep.

It is three in the morning, and the men have left their cavalry couches, and are silently rolling their blankets and saddling their horses. We leave the field as we entered it, replacing the fence and turning toward Buena Vista. How surprised the owner will be when, harvesting his corn, he stumbles on the traces of our mysterious bivouac. The country still sleeps in the chill, silent moonlight, and very chilly and silent are we; but by and by the day breaks, and, as the sun rises, we descend into the dark, damp valley of the Obion. The direction of our march is reversed—so is the hour, and so are all the circumstances, yet we feel awed by the memories of last May. Every fallen tree or muddy hollow has a tale—here this man's horse was shot, here another was wounded, and here a third narrowly escaped. On the bank of this little stream, the man who leads was taken prisoner; over it Tennessee made an unequalled jump; in this mud hole, five horses went down, and further on, near the bridge, our major fell. Looking at it calmly and critically, it seems even worse than it did then, and I wonder how one of us escaped.

We reach the bridge; the thickened foliage leaves the valley less open, yet I can, in fancy, see again that long column bearing down upon us. What a strong position it is! how easily we could have held it, had we been armed like the enemy! And here are the house and the barn-yard, and Bischoff shows us the very place where the little black horse made his famous leap; and Mr. Lockridge comes out and points to some graves, and his wife repeats some dying words. They beg us to stay to breakfast, and say that though they suffered last spring, they have been blessed with an abundant harvest; but we do not feel like breakfasting there now, and pass on to the houses where the flags were waved, and where the welcome is worthy of the flag.

A long day has this been for us—sultry and hot—the streams dried up—the wells a hundred feet deep—and our horses have suffered much. We are still seven miles from Como, when two mounted men are seen behind us. "Bring those men in, sergeant." The sergeant wheels about and soon returns with them.

"I must trouble you to ride with us awhile, gentlemen," I say; "I wish to talk with you."

"We are going to Cottage Grove," says one of the men; "it is seven miles off, and we have ridden a long distance to-day: I hope you won't take us far."