“It’s the blissid truth I’m afther tilling ye, Jim Sullivan, if that’s yer name,” continued Mike, turning to the sergeant, with a face as serious as a Quaker’s prayer meeting, “whin I say I’m the poorest rider in the company, bad luck to the old horse for the same, but as ye had the least bit of a taste this mornin’ of what I can do in the saddle, whin I’m a mind to, jist scratch yer head and think what the cap’n and the rest of the boys can do whin they thry.”
The sergeant looked with open-eyed astonishment from Anderson to Mike, then grasping the latter’s hand with a proud look on his face he said:
“It’s ould Ireland, me lad, that can bate the world. Ye may be a poor rider in your company, but ye can make the best man in the ould Fifth (his regiment) ashamed of himself in the saddle, and by the same token some of’m were rocked, whin babies, in horse troughs for cradles.”
The captain and myself left Mike and his countryman discussing horses and how to ride them, but we were satisfied Mike would change the subject as soon as possible, for he knew no more about either than a Digger Indian does of the Greek alphabet.
It was not long after this before Mike had his “innings” on our friends in blue, although he did not come out as scathless as in the two scrapes above mentioned.
Our pickets reported a body of Federal cavalry advancing towards LaGrange from Helena, on the St. Francis road. Our regiment was badly scattered, having to picket some twelve or fifteen miles of country, but at the sounds of “boots and saddle” a hundred and forty or fifty men “fell in,” and with the colonel at our head we went trotting through LaGrange to meet the enemy.
Some two or three miles below the little village, the road ran through one of those large cotton plantations common in that section, with a high rail fence on either side. In the woods just at the end of this lane there was a thick, heavy growth of young paw-paws. Dismounting Weatherly, who had in the meantime been promoted to a captaincy, and thirty-five or forty of his men, were placed in ambush along the road with instructions to open fire on the enemy as soon as they came up. The colonel took the rest of the command, skirted the plantation and came to the lane a half mile further down and in their rear. We had scarcely reached this position and formed in the timber before Weatherly’s guns opened. We swung by fours out into the lane and with a yell went at them under full speed, Colonel Dobbins and Captain Anderson (the latter’s company being in front), leading the charge on the right and left of the column. The road was as open and level as a billiard table, every man was driving the steel in his horse, and we were going at racing speed. The rear companies of the Federal squadron promptly wheeled to meet us and poured a steady fire from their carbines on us as we came up. I happened to be one of the first fours and was within a few feet of the colonel, when I saw him glance over his shoulder, slacken his speed somewhat, throw up his hand and call to Captain Anderson: “Let the men close up!” At the rate we had been coming, we were necessarily badly strung out, and the Federals were standing solid across the entire road, not more than seventy-five yards from us.
I pulled up my horse slightly and had half turned my head to look back, when, like a red streak, a trooper dashed by me. There was no mistaking the rider. The reins were flying loose, the old horse’s blood was up, and so was Mike’s. He couldn’t have stopped him if he would and he wouldn’t if he could, for “Charge” to Mike meant “go in” whether there was one man or a thousand at his back. He was unslinging his gun for action as he passed (a double-barrel shotgun loaded with buck and ball, and, by the way, the best weapon cavalry could be armed with in those days for close work). I had only time to notice this before our rear had closed up and the colonel again gave the order to charge. The delay was only the fractional part of a second, but Mike was then flying fifty yards in front of us. I saw two puffs of smoke fly over his shoulder and he disappeared in the cloud. The next instant we were “mixing with ’em.” The action was short, sharp and fierce, the Federals using the sabre, we six-shooters, and was too hot to last long. Their rear gave way, we went through, joined Weatherly, and never gave them time to reform until they were driven inside of their lines.
I was hurrying back to the place where I had last seen Mike, when I came up on our surgeon gouging into a poor fellow after a ball and inquired if he had found Mike.
“Yes.”