"Each looked to sun and stream and plain
As what they ne'er might see again."
Suddenly the rattle of musketry seemed to roll away and all was still. Another time when the sound of battle approached our position, we dismounted and in line awaited the onset.
In the evening the distant boom of cannon announced that a battle was on somewhere, and while we sat on our horses, weary but alert, the bloody battle of Franklin was being fought miles away. At last night fell, and exhausted men and horses sank gratefully to sleep.
Our camp was at the base of a wooded hill, in a field adjoining the Nolansville Pike. Next morning, December 1st, the horses, that had not been unsaddled, were put in line and held while breakfast was prepared and eaten. Before this was completed out-post firing was heard—a cavalryman came galloping, saying the enemy was upon us. The command hastily mounted and moved out on the pike, just before reaching which Companies D and G were halted, and, under command of Major Lyon, went into line, facing the rear. The regiment moving at a rapid walk, moved up the pike and disappeared. In a few minutes the rebels opened an irregular but furious fire from the brow of the hill under which we had camped. At the first discharge a horse went down; directly a man was shot; another horse fell. Thicker and thicker came the bullets; fiercer and fiercer grew the rebel yell. Major Lyon rode up and down the line shouting, "Give 'em hell, boys." It was the "baptism of fire" for the boys, but no one faltered. When ordered to wheel to the right, by fours, to march to the rear, behind a stone wall on the other side of the pike, they executed the movement as deliberately as on dress parade. Dismounted and sheltered by the stone wall the men were comparatively safe, but the horses suffered severely. Before they could be led to the rear, out of range, fifteen had fallen.
The rebels did not advance from the brow of the hill, but blazed away with constantly increasing vigor. A "jackass battery" opened on us. The boys did not flinch from this new experience, but kept steadily to their work with the coolness of veterans. Our Maynard carbines were weak weapons, useless at long range—our fire must have been ineffectual as to casualty, but being breech-loaders the boys were enabled to fire with such rapidity that the enemy over-estimated our numbers and hesitated to advance, but began creeping round our flanks on either side. And still the Major said "give 'em hell, boys," and held us to the work until our ammunition was exhausted. About this time Adjutant Payne, who was on the staff of Gen. Hammond, came back with orders to retreat. Everybody was willing, but it was easier said than done.
Almost surrounded, no ammunition, many more men than horses, the pike in possession of the foe, it was not a comfortable prospect. Hurrying to the rear we mounted—some without horses, mounted behind a comrade; again another would hold to a stirrup or a horses' tail to keep up with the rapid trot. No one thought of dashing to safety at the expense of a dismounted comrade. A horse was killed throwing its rider against a tree breaking his collar bone. Instantly he was placed behind a comrade and away again. On and on through wood and field, rushing through rail fences, tearing down stone walls with bleeding hands and still behind, and from either side, the rebel yell and hissing bullet.[[1]]
At last, most welcome sight, the guidons of a cavalry regiment drawn up in line to receive us and check the enemy. Feeling sure of safety for all, we dashed forward, leaving the dismounted men two hundred yards behind. To our surprise and indignation this regiment wheeled into column and trotted away before we reached them leaving us to follow. The abandoned, dismounted men took to a cornfield and many of them escaped. Two privates of Co. D, Lieut. Swayne and some enlisted men of Co. G, were taken prisoners. Later on we reached the regiment standing in line on the pike. From this place we moved slowly toward Nashville until night came on. Going into camp near the road we enjoyed what we had fairly earned—a night's repose without alarm.
As we passed through Nashville to our old camp at Edgefield next morning, every hatless trooper of the previous day's fight will gratefully remember how the merchants in the city came out with arm loads of hats to supply our needs. Late in the evening the brigade was again in the saddle, marching to Gallatin, Tenn., where we remained some days patrolling the river from that place to Carthage to keep the enemy from crossing. While here encamped a detachment of the 9th, under command of Major Wall, was sent up into Kentucky "pressing in" horses and mules. This expedition was through a rich country, comparatively unravaged by the war, and was a pleasure trip to its participants. Not so to the hapless citizens who had horses and mules. Desolation to poultry yards marked the path of the party. A fine lot of animals were secured, among them a number of blooded horses. It is possible that all these did not receive Uncle Sam's trade mark. There was a legend current in the regiment that one of the mules obtained at this time, that by accident was not branded, did excellent service at New Orleans in supplying one company with the needful.[[2]]
On December the 8th the command returned to Nashville. The morning was lowery and by noon began to rain. A strong northwest wind froze the water as it fell and soon the road was a glare of ice. The horses unshod or smooth shod had but precarious footing. Fortunately no serious accident occurred. The men were chilled and shivering. When the column halted for any purpose the red cedar rails on either side were soon ablaze; but before the cheerful flame could infuse warmth in the chilled fingers the bugle sounded "forward" and the grateful heat was left to waste its comfort on the frosty air. We left a fiery as well as a frozen track that day. Before nightfall we went into camp within two miles of the city. Soon, amid the lurid flame of burning rails, the smoking hot coffee, crisp sow-belly and luscious hard-tack, we forgot the discomfort of our cheerless ride—the song and laugh went round until one by one each voice was hushed and the camp was wrapped in silence.