As afterward learned, the attacking party were Lieut.-Col. Wood with a body of Mississippi cavalry and John Morgan’s command. They had first quietly taken in the pickets and then made a dash, from the woods, on the train, capturing, with the teamsters, Capt. Braiden, an Aide of Gen. Dumont’s. Gen. Mitchell himself barely escaped capture, having ridden along the pike about the same time. A halt was called and the road examined to ascertain which way the enemy had gone. The trace was found leading east through the woods. One Company was sent back to get re-enforcements, and, with them, to strike into the timber from the regimental camp to try and intercept the raiders. The original party, headed by Col. Kennett, dashed into the woods, and then occurred a chase the parallel to which has seldom been seen. “Forward!” was the word, and forward it was. The woods became a thicket, sometimes apparently impassable; but the horses, spurred by their riders, dashed at headlong speed through the trees, through the underbrush, under branches—thorns scratching the face and hands, projecting limbs tearing clothes and bruising bodies. Down hill and up hill, through marsh and bog, over logs and across streams, leaping obstacles, shouting, yelling, screaming, and hurrahing, away we went—mud and leaves flying and dead limbs crushing beneath horses’ feet. Now the trail is lost and there is a halt to look for footprints. How much of a start the raiders have can not be known, but the trail must be fresh. Soon it is found and the horses gallop on as full of spirit as their wildly excited riders. When the tracks disappear in the forest leaves, the rebel course is now marked by plunder lost or cast aside—overcoats, canteens, saddles, blankets, the woods are full of them. Now and then an abandoned horse is seen. Finally, we strike a narrow pike, follow it a mile or so and learn that Morgan and Wood have divided their force, only the smaller part having taken the course we are pursuing. We were after Morgan and the main body, so turned back. It was precious time lost but the trail was again struck, where they had crossed the pike, and once more a plunge was made into the timber and cedars.
For miles the trees were so thick, and the foliage so dense, that it became impossible to ride other than single file; but, retarded as was our speed, the chase became hotter and more exciting than ever. The Yankee blood of the hunters was at fever heat and they determined to run the game to cover. The sight of an abandoned horse (and the hard-pressed enemy was now leaving his own as well as our animals) was the signal for a yell that the pursued might have heard and trembled at miles away. Then spurs were clapped into horses’ flanks to urge them still faster on; and thus the column—if column that could be called which column was none—swept, dashed, plunged onward. Occasionally a trooper was dismounted by a projecting limb, and as he clambered out of the way, the sympathetic cry was wafted back from some comrade, “Say, what infantry rigiment does you’ns belong to?”
Now the Colonel’s voice rings shrilly through the forest with the same old talismanic “forward!” The refrain is taken up, sent back along the column until the rearmost rider hears and shouts a returning echo, “We are coming, father Abraham!” No cowardice there. No lagging behind from choice. Every man was straining nerve and muscle to get ahead. We were fast gaining on the enemy and they knew it, trembling at every shout wafted to their ears. They grew desperate, dug the rowels into their horses, cursed their prisoners, threatened them, shot at them to make them keep up, and wounded one poor fellow to the death. These facts were gleaned afterward.
We had gained rapidly and thought them almost within grasp. But “the best laid plans of mice and men, etc., etc.” Desperation nerved them and they flew down the pike, scattering the stones behind. But we ran them into the net prepared. The detachment that had gone out later from camp struck the pike opportunely and received the enemy warmly as we drove him into their arms. A brisk engagement followed, partly hand to hand. The fight was soon over, the enemy being routed, scattered and driven in every direction. At the onset Morgan, with his staff and a lot of blooded horses, broke away and escaped across Stone river. Our command being united and ready to move an inventory of affairs and effects was taken. The enemy left four dead on the field, four sound captives in our hands and two wounded. Of the ninety-four horses taken we recaptured seventy-five; of the forty-eight teamsters, thirty-one, and also Capt. Braiden. A number of rebels were wounded, but not seriously, and escaped. One of the two wounded prisoners—Warfield by name—was related to one of the most prominent and wealthy families of Cincinnati. The other was a Mississippian, by the name of Love. The writer visited the two in the regimental hospital that night. Love had a terrible wound, and knew it was mortal, but his last breath was expended in cursing and execrating the “Yankees” in the most horrible and vile language tongue could utter.
The chase being over, the command returned—all except the Company with the rifles, who were to continue the pursuit. Pushing on again we struck the Murfreesboro pike, near Lavergne, and got on the heels of one detachment, but these, knowing the country, broke for the cedars and escaped. We saw no more of them and returned to camp at 8 p. m., after a ride of about thirty miles, part of this on a keen run.
About a month after the incidents just related, the Fourth Ohio Cavalry had the honor of capturing Huntsville, Ala., the “Queen City of the Mountains.” About the middle of March, 1862, Gen. Mitchell’s Division of Buell’s army left Nashville and pushed south to Murfreesboro, thence to Shelbyville, following the rebel Johnston, who had destroyed all bridges behind him. From Shelbyville a rapid advance was made to Fayetteville, then a hot-bed of Secession. Turchin’s Brigade, with Simonson’s Battery and the Fourth Ohio Cavalry, had the van. The Fourth broke camp early that morning, April 9th, at the loyal town of Shelbyville, with a three o’clock reveille and timely “Boots and Saddles.” Passing by the infantry and Simonson’s guns, the regiment rode briskly on to Fayetteville, through the town, over the stone bridge at Elk river, and camped on the same spot where Gen. Jackson had camped fifty years before, in 1812, a spot convenient, pleasant, and historic. News of the victory at Corinth reached us on the 10th, and there was enthusiastic joy and joyful enthusiasm throughout the camp. The command set out at once for Huntsville, the cavalry leading. Our route lay along a circuitous dirt road and through a mountainous country. Twelve miles brought us to the State line, marked by a high pole bearing the tattered remnants of a rebel flag.
Now we are in Alabama. The plantations stretch out in beautiful landscape and, as the innumerable negroes grin at us from every field and fence, we are forcibly reminded that we are “in the land of cotton.” Halting at sundown to feed and await the remainder of the division, the cavalry again moved on rapidly and went into bivouac at 10 p. m. At two in the morning a detail of picked men was made to ride across the country and tear up the track on the Memphis & Charleston Railroad leading east from Huntsville. Pickets were also thrown out to intercept all travel to and from the town. At four o’clock on the morning of April 11th the artillery and cavalry were in motion for Huntsville, eight miles away. Nearing town the battery galloped on to the front, the Fourth Ohio following close. It was a matter of all importance that the place should be reached before any trains should leave; and when, two miles off, the whistle of a locomotive sounded on our ears, every thing was excitement and every horse put to its speed. Such a clatter never before awoke the echoes among those Alabama hills. Yonder curls the smoke and here comes the engine with but a single car, steaming eastward across the plain. Simonson wheels a gun, lets fly a solid shot, and the engine slackens speed, hesitates (as if to ask the meaning of all this), and puffs quickly on. A shell speeds after it but fails in its intent. However, the train can not escape altogether if our railroad wreckers have safely reached their trysting-place. The locomotive may be ditched and lost to us for service, but will hardly carry the news to Leadbetter, at Bridgeport, that the Yankees have come.
Company A has orders and in an instant a dozen troopers have dismounted, thrown down the stake-and-rider fence, and away goes the company across the plain in hot pursuit—horse-flesh vieing with steam! But the iron-limbed courser had the best bottom and whirled along amid a shower of bullets—escaping for the time, but only to become prey to the detachment up the road. Another whistle sounds and another train comes in sight. Simonson’s bull dog again barks—again ineffectually. A repeated effort is more successful, and a shell crashes through the cab. The cavalry company is on hand this time, and bang! bang! crack! crack! go the carbines and revolvers and the balls whistle about the engineer’s head and rattle against the cars. The train stops and the passengers, rebel soldiers and officers, leap to the ground and endeavor to escape. A few succeed, but the majority are taken. The train is boarded and brought back. Meanwhile the column dashes onward and goes whirling into Huntsville. At the station is another train just leaving, with troops who are going “on to Richmond.” A cocked pistol held at the engineer’s head has the effect of shutting off steam and the train is placed under guard. The regiment gallops up the street and through the town. Pickets are thrown out on all the roads.
Black faces were at every door and window; blacks were at the gates, and blacks were on the streets; but the “Chivalry” had evidently deserted the place, except the few who viciously peered at us through the blinds, robed in white. Perhaps it was too early for white folks, and our call was untimely on that bright April morning—the clock had not yet struck six—and perhaps they were too high toned to suffer Yankees to look upon their faces. After reconnoitering the streets and gathering in a few wearers of the gray the regiment was apportioned to various duties.
Another train had just pulled in, all unconscious of the reception awaiting. This, too, was filled with soldiery from below, bound for Richmond—four officers and 180 privates. At one of the hotels a Major and three Captains were taken, and others at other points in town. The full result of the early morning’s work was 800 prisoners, 17 locomotives and a large number of cars. The locomotives themselves were of incalculable value, and more than paid for the expedition if there had been no other fruits; for they enabled Gen. Mitchell to push his troops rapidly in every direction and hurry forward supplies. Without them many of the results which soon followed could not have been accomplished.