They conducted me to a tent on the hill, near a small ravine, whose waters flowed into the Tennessee. From the locality of the ground, I thought that if I could run the guards that night, I could find my way to the river, and thence back to my brigade. Lying down in the tent, which was now my prison, I awaited patiently the development of events, hoping the while that the guards might soon be blest by the gentle embrace of slumber. I feigned sleep and snored prodigiously.
“I attempted to roll quietly away from the wretch, and might have succeeded, had I not encountered a guard, who thrust me with his bayonet, exclaiming, ‘Halt, dar!’”—Page 39.
“How sound that Yankee sleeps,” I heard one of the guards remark.
About midnight a storm arose, and threatened destruction to my tent, which was shortly after blown over by an auspicious blast. It instantly occurred to me that perchance there was now an opportunity to escape, in the darkness and noise of the storm. I attempted to roll quietly away from the wreck, and might have succeeded had I not encountered a guard, who thrust me with his bayonet, exclaiming, “Halt, dar!” I inquired as innocently as I could, “You wouldn’t bayonet a sleeping man, would you?”
“Oh!” said he, apologetically, “I thought you was awake.”
“Why! our tent has blown over, don’t you see?”
The tent was soon put up, and I again safely ensconced within its canvas walls. The next day I was taken to Corinth, in a mule wagon, and deposited in a rickety old warehouse. Among the prisoners here were about twenty slaves, some of them almost white, and all clad in rags. Also in the company were ten or a dozen Tennesseeans, yclept “political prisoners,” together with a few rebel soldiers.
Among the latter was a droll genius, who answered to the name of “Calico Bill,” who was under sentence of death for flogging his captain. By some means he had procured an old United States uniform, in which he donned the dignity of a brigadier. In this garb he would frequently assume the position of drill-master, and the poor imbecile clay-eaters would obey his orders with the menial servitude of slaves. His conduct, while it was highly tyrannous, was nevertheless amusing. He seemed to have these ignorant soldiers completely under his control, and I refer to this illustration of slavish fear to “point the moral,” if not “to adorn the tale.” It does not require very profound penetration to ascertain the fact that all through the South “the schoolmaster has long been abroad.” I have sometimes thought that if our present conflict resulted in no other good, it would send light to many a benighted spot, and, perchance,
“Pour fresh instruction o’er the mind,