We told him that we had already said all that we knew about it, and that we did not feel like submitting to punishment as a body for the acts of an individual. Roll-call came, but nobody was able to report. We were then told by the officer that we should have nothing but bread and water until we reported who did it.
During the night, the boys took several pocket-handkerchiefs and made a black flag, about three feet square, and fastened it to a long strip of molding, which they tore off from the wood-work of the room, and hoisted it upon the top of the court-house cupola. In the morning it attracted every body's attention, by its disgusting appearance, as it floated from the most conspicuous place in town. It created universal indignation throughout the town.
The officer of the guard came up and ordered us to take it down. We replied that as long as we had to subsist upon bread and water, it was the flag that we rallied under. He then ordered the guards to make us remove it. As they were attempting to come up the stairs, George, who had armed himself with an armful of bricks from the fire-place in the room, opened fire upon them from the head of the stairs, which made them beat a hasty retreat, and the officer could not induce them to renew the attempt. In about half an hour, a detail came, armed, not with guns and bayonets, but with mess-pans and kettles, filled with soft bread, beefsteak, and coffee. It is needless to add, the "additional reinforcements" compelled us to "surrender" and take down the flag. As long as we remained in charge of that officer, we continued to receive an abundance of good, wholesome rations.
During our confinement in the guard-house at Bolivar, quite a number of rebel soldiers, that had been captured by the Federal cavalry, were temporarily confined with us. Several of them were men that belonged to the 2d Arkansas Cavalry, and I had become acquainted with them during the time that I was with that regiment.
On the 3d day of December, 1862, five days after the army had advanced from Lagrange, I came to the conclusion that I had been confined long enough, and that my only way of getting myself and men released, without delay, would be to visit in person my commanding officers, and lay the case before them. One inducement that I had was, I had learned that there were no papers in the hands of the Provost-marshal with charges against us. They had either become lost, or, what is more probable, were returned to the officer that preferred them, on account of informalities. In the absence of such papers, I felt convinced that I could get an order for the release of myself and men. It was an unmilitary way of doing business, but, nevertheless, I resolved to leave the guard-house, without authority, to obtain authority for my release and that of my men.
We had been in confinement fifty days, and before I could reach the army it would be more than a hundred miles from Lagrange. It was a great undertaking to leave the guard-house without authority, and, without rations, to run a gauntlet of that distance, through Federal pickets and railroad guards, stationed at frequent intervals along the whole route, every one of whom would halt me to examine my pass, or would turn me back if without one.
Sergeant T. J. Watson volunteered to go with me. How we got out of the guard-house it is not necessary for me to mention. From Lagrange we took a south-east course, across the country toward Davis' Mills; we struck the railroad where the wagon road crosses it. There we found some pickets, belonging to a detachment of five companies stationed at Davis' Mills, under command of a Major, and charged with guarding a portion of the railroad. At the time we approached them, they were all, except the sentry, engaged in cooking a part of a fat porker that they had confiscated during the night. We halted and entered into conversation with the boys, as though we had no intention of going on. Having finished their cooking, they asked us to eat with them, which we were no way backward about doing. We finished our breakfast, and were about starting on, when the sentry, who had been more attentive to duty than we had hoped, asked us if we had passes. I told him we had not, and that we were on our way to the front, and had not been asked for passes before, and did not know as it was necessary to have them. With that explanation, the sergeant of the guard let us pass, but told us that it would not do to let the Captain in command see us.
Not liking to run our chances with him, we crossed the railroad and left it to our right, and crossed Davis Creek on a log, and, a short distance from the creek, turned to our right, so as to reach the bridge across Wolf River, near Davis' Mills. As we were passing through the cleared field, I discovered to my left, on a rise of ground, a squad of guerrillas, mounted on horses. We were within easy shot of them. We were then within half a mile of the detachment camped at Davis' Mills; they probably did not wish to alarm the Federal pickets. They had evidently discovered us first, and were watching for an opportunity to "gobble us up."
"Tom," said I to the Sergeant, "what kind of soldiers do you call them?"
"What kind are they, Bunker?"