The night following the race we made after the Broocks’ captors, my horse fell sick and became unfit for service. In consequence I was ordered to send him to the pasture in charge of the command, a few miles below Columbia, and take command of “the sick, lame, and lazy camp” on Rutherford Creek, a temporary camp made up of slightly disabled men, and men with disabled horses or without horses. I was on duty here two weeks, with about as little to do as could be imagined. It was while I was on duty here that General Van Dorn’s death occurred at his headquarters at Spring Hill. He was assassinated by one Dr. Peters, who was actuated by an insane jealousy. Dr. Peters was an elderly man, with a pretty young wife; General Van Dorn was a gay, dashing cavalier. Dr. Peters was in the general’s office when he came in from breakfast, and asked the general to sign a pass permitting him to pass through the picket lines. As General Van Dorn was writing his signature to the paper, Dr. Peters stood behind him. When Van Dorn had given the last stroke with the pen, the doctor shot him in the back of the head, and, having his horse ready saddled, he mounted and galloped up to our pickets, passed through, and made his escape. As soon as the crime was known a number of the general’s escort mounted their horses and gave chase, but they were too late to stop the doctor.
In a few days after this very sad occurrence General Jackson’s division was ordered to Mississippi by rapid marches, and about the middle of May we reluctantly bade adieu to this beautiful, picturesque middle Tennessee.
CHAPTER XI
THE SURRENDER OF VICKSBURG
Moving Southward—I Lose My Horse—Meet Old Huntsville Friends—A New Horse—In Mississippi—“Sneeze Weed”—Messenger’s Ferry—Surrender of Vicksburg—Army Retires—Fighting at Jackson—After Sherman’s Men—A Sick Horse—Black Prince—“Tax in Kind”—Ross’ Brigade—Two Desertions.
I now disbanded my important command on Rutherford Creek, and telling my men that every fellow must take care of himself, I joined the movement towards Mississippi. Leaving in the afternoon, we camped on the north bank of Duck River opposite Columbia. That night while walking into a deep gully I sprained an ankle very badly. Next morning my foot and ankle were so swollen I could not wear my boot, so I exchanged it for an old rusty brogan shoe found in an ambulance, and shipped all my luggage in the ambulance. I made my way to the pasture eight miles below, mounted my horse and joined the command.
Before reaching camp that night my horse was taken with a peculiar lameness in one of his hind legs. Next morning soon after starting he became lame again, and grew rapidly worse, so much so that I fell behind, being unable to keep up. Soon I had to dismount and lead him, driving him and urging him along in every possible way, spending the day in that manner, and walking most of the time. In the afternoon I saw that contingent called stragglers. One man rode up and said to me, “Hello, Barron! you are gone up for a horse. You’ll have to have another. Have you got any money?” “Not much,” I replied. Pulling out a one hundred dollar bill, he said: “Here, take this; it will do you some good.” During the afternoon another, and after a while still another passed me, saying and doing precisely the same thing. Crossing Elk River just before dark, I stopped to spend the night at the first house on the road. The next morning my horse was dead. I had expected to trade him, but now I was completely afoot, encumbered with my rigging, fifteen miles behind the command, which had gone on the Athens, Ala., road.
After visiting the lot I went back to breakfast, feeling that I was a good many miles from home, but not particularly daunted. I had all the time believed that a soldier who volunteered in the Confederate army in good faith and was honestly doing his duty would come out of all kinds of difficulties in good shape. After breakfast I watched the road until noon. At last a man of our brigade came along leading a horse, and I inquired to whom he belonged. “One of the boys that was sent to the hospital.” I then explained to him my situation. “All right,” said he, “you take this pony, find you a horse, and leave the pony with the wagon train when you come to it.” “The pony” was a shabby little long-haired mustang with one hip bone knocked down, but I was mounted for the time.