He told me the Yankees would capture me, but if they came I could run out the back door to the wood behind. He called me at four o’clock for a cup of coffee and a good breakfast, gave me nice lunch for noon, and I was walking on the slippery road before daylight. I walked for my life and made forty miles that day. When ready to pick out a place for the night I went to a house to find out where I was. The good woman saw that I was a rebel, and asked me what was my command.
“Cleburne’s old Division, Govan’s Brigade, Army of Tennessee,” I answered.
She burst out crying, “For God’s sake go on,” she said, “Last night they captured my son from the same command.”
I declared I was not tired at all, and had a half hour more of daylight anyhow. She told me how to get off the big road and where to stay all night. I went five miles further and when I asked for a night’s lodging the good citizen had to be shown my furlough. Then he was glad to see me, gave me a fine supper and a good bed, and went with me next morning to show me the short cuts.
That day I went through the prairie, nine miles of sage grass. All day it poured rain, rain, rain. When about half way across there came a terrific cloudburst and I was nearly drowned. I thought, “Oh, to think that, after my perilous crossing of the great Mississippi, I should be drowned on a prairie so near home.” I held my blanket over my head and out in front of me, so that I could breathe, and that saved me. Before I got to the next house I poured the water out of my boots and washed my socks. I pulled off my pants and washed them. I did this because I was afraid the family would not let such a muddy straggler stay all night. But they were nice to me.
I resumed my journey at daybreak. Bayou Deview was out of its banks. I waded to the channel, waist deep. I do not know how long I was about it, but I finally got across and saw the sand ridges and the big home road.
I had to cross Cache river at Gray’s Ferry. As a boy I had known Dr. Gray but he did not know me. I went to the house, introduced myself, and showed him my furlough. He asked when I crossed the Mississippi. I told him. Had I walked all the way? I told him I had. Was I any relation of Judge Bevens of that district? I told him Judge Bevens was my uncle. He finished by saying, “You have walked all the way from St. Francis river and have not stolen a horse?” I told him I was a gentleman, not a horse thief. He said, “Certainly, I will put you across the Cache river.” He called to a negro to bring two horses, and we rode about a mile to the ferry. There a man met us with a skiff and took me across. I went on my way and began to know the landmarks. When I reached the fork of the roads, (one leading to Augusta; the other to Jacksonport), I sat down to rest. Jim Howell, the deputy sheriff rode up. He looked at me for a minute, then shouted, “Why, is that you, Bill Bevens, what in hell are you doing here?”
I showed him my furlough and told him about my journey. He made me ride, while he walked to his house, a few miles up the road. Then he put a little negro up behind me to ride some miles further.
I met Bill Campbell, who lost a leg at Shiloh. He wanted me to stay and talk, but I was headed for home and would not stop. I went on to Colonel McCoy’s at Tupelo. I spent the night with Bruce Waddell. He lost a leg at Shiloh. It was the first time I had seen him since. I helped carry him off the field. It was a happy meeting, and we talked nearly all night. He sent a little negro with me to Village Creek. I crossed in a canoe and walked the rest of the way—six miles—to Jacksonport.
Home again! Was it only four years ago that the Jackson Guards had marched to the Presbyterian church to receive its banner from loving hands? How many miles we had traveled. How many battles we had fought. How many wretched homes and blazing cities we had seen. The sorrows, wounds, sufferings and deaths of centuries were crowded into those four years. Oh, the pity of it!