SKETCHES OF THE WAR:

A SERIES OF

Letters to the North Moore Street School

OF NEW YORK.

BY

CHARLES C. NOTT,

CAPTAIN IN THE FIFTH IOWA CAVALRY AND TRUSTEE OF PUBLIC SCHOOLS IN THE
CITY OF NEW YORK.

THIRD EDITION.

NEW-YORK:
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH,
770 BROADWAY, CORNER OF 9TH ST.
—
1865.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by

CHARLES C. NOTT.

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

To

WILLIAM B. EAGER, Jr.,

AN UNWAVERING FRIEND AND FAITHFUL SCHOOL OFFICER,

THESE SKETCHES ARE INSCRIBED.

CONTENTS.

PREFACE.

TO SECOND EDITION.

The first edition of this little work was published during its author's absence in the Department of the Gulf, and fought its own way into public favor. The second edition is now published for the exclusive benefit of disabled soldiers, and in the expectation of opening for them a profitable field of employment. As the first edition was soon exhausted, and no work has been offered to the public that fulfils the designs of this, it is hoped that this edition may find an approval beyond the humane object which calls it forth.

Written for readers whom I had been accustomed to address familiarly, and among whom the most usefully happy moments of my life had passed; and composed for the most part amid the scenes which they describe, these letters to the North Moore Street School were never intended for adult readers, nor to assume the shape and substance of a book. In composing them I carefully avoided that "baby-talk" which some people think simplicity, and that paltriness of subject which by many is thought to be alone within the grasp and comprehension of a child. The greatest of children's stories are those which were written for men. "Robinson Crusoe" and "Gulliver's Travels," amid the annual wreck of a thousand "juvenile publications," survive, and pass from generation to generation, known to us best as the attractive reading of our early life. This enviable lot is secured to them by the severe purity of their English composition—the simplicity of their style—the natural minuteness of their description, but above all by the real greatness of their authors, who in striving to be simple, never condescend to be little. The "Goody Two Shoes" of Goldsmith, which was written for children, is hardly rescued by his charming style; but the "Vicar of Wakefield," which was written for men, has ascended to be a story-book for childhood, and is speedily becoming the exclusive property of the young.

Therefore while I sought to instruct a few of the children of the United States by carrying them unconsciously through the details of military life, and unfolding to them some of the better scenes in their country's great struggle, still I selected just such incidents and topics as I would have chosen for their fathers and mothers, only endeavoring, with greater strictness, to blend in the narration simplicity with elegance.

SKETCHES OF THE WAR.

I. THE HOSPITAL.

There was a young man in my squadron whom I shall call Frank Gillham. He was the son of a Wisconsin farmer, and had enlisted in the ranks as a patriotic duty. Frank was young and handsome, a fine horseman, and rode one of the handsomest horses in the squadron. He was just the person whom one would suppose sure to rise from the ranks and perform many a gallant feat during the war. A few weeks ago the horse was reported sick. It had but a cold, and we thought that a few days would find it well again. But the cold grew worse and changed to pneumonia, a disease of the lungs fearfully prevalent here among both men and horses.

Frank nursed and watched his horse day and night, counting the beatings of its pulse, consulting the farrier, administering the medicine as though the horse were his best friend. It was fruitless labor; for the poor animal stood hour after hour panting with drooping head, occasionally looking sadly up as if to say, "you can do me no good," until at last it died. We all felt sorry for the poor horse, but did not think his death was the forerunner of a greater loss.

In the middle of December, the surgeon reported Frank sick with measles. The cold draughts through the barracks are peculiarly dangerous to this disease, and it is also contagious; and hence it is an inflexible rule to send patients at once to the hospital. The ambulance came, Frank was helped in, and I bid him good bye, expecting (for it was but a slight attack) that he would return soon.

A fortnight passed, and he was reported convalescent; the measles had gone, but there was a cough remaining; he had better wait awhile till quite restored.

Once or twice I tried to go to the hospital, which was a mile distant from camp; but there is a rule forbidding officers to leave the camp except with a pass, and the passes are limited in number and dealt out in turn—my turn had not come. My last application for a pass was made on Sunday; unhappily it was refused. On Monday, I sent some letters which had come for Frank down to the hospital. An hour or two afterwards the letters came back. I took them—they were unopened—there was a message: "Frank Gillham is dead."

During the two or three preceding days, the cough had run into pneumonia. The surgeons had not sent word—they had no one to send—there were so many such cases. I had not been there, because it was contrary to camp regulations; and thus, with a family within the telegraph's call and some old friends within the neighboring barracks, poor Frank had died alone in the cheerless wards of a public hospital.

When it was too late to receive a last message or soothe a dying hour, a pass could be obtained. I took with me a corporal, an old friend of Frank's. As we rode along, I made some inquiries and learned that Frank was the eldest child, and the pride of his family. There had doubtless been anxious forebodings when he enlisted, and tears when he departed. "It will break his father's heart when he hears of this," said the corporal.

Ordinarily it would have been a great relief to ride beyond the camp enclosure; for the sense of confinement and the constant sight of straight rows of men going through their endless angular movements become very irksome after a while, and awaken a strong desire to be unrestrained yourself and to see people in their natural, every day life. But now we felt too depressed for enjoying our unexpected liberty, and except when I was asking the questions I have spoken of, we rode in dreary silence, thinking of the painful duty before us, and of the distant family soon to be startled by the fatal message, and informed that they had given a victim to the guilty rebellion.

At length we reached the "Hospital of the Good Samaritan." It is situated on the outskirts of the city, and has been taken by the Government for soldiers sick with contagious diseases. The building is large and not unpleasant, the ceilings high, and the rooms cheerfully lighted. There seemed to be such comforts as can be bought and sold, and the attendants appeared kind and diligent. But here I must stop on the favorable side. As I looked around, I learned why soldiers dread the hospital. The cots were close together, with just room enough to pass between, and on every cot lay a sick man. At the sound of the opening door, some looked eagerly toward us—others turned their eyes languidly—and others again did not change their vacant gaze, too weak to care who came or went away. There were faces flushed with fever, others pale and thin, and others with the pallor of death settling upon them, the lips muttering unconsciously in delirium, and the fingers nervously picking the bed clothes. Here was a man who had just arrived, timid and anxious; and on the next cot was one who would soon depart on the last march.

I went into the room where my lost soldier had taken his farewell, hoping to gather from the other occupants some last words or message for the dear ones of his home. The cot was still empty. I went up to the next patient and whispered my question, "Did you know the young man who died this morning?" The man shook his head and said, "No, I was too sick;" and he glanced nervously at the empty cot so close beside him. I passed round and asked the next. He half opened his closed eyes, but made no reply. It was too plain he could not. I had not observed how soon he would follow Frank. I went to the night attendant, who had come round about midnight, and had spoken to Frank of the coming change. He had been resigned and had expressed regrets only for his family and country, and a wish to live for them. "He said this with great energy," said the attendant, "and I wondered how a dying man could feel so much. But after that he became flighty; and as there were only three of us to over one hundred patients, I had to go and leave him. He died about sunrise." Did he continue delirious? or was he conscious through those last lonely hours? and did he wish for some fond hand to support his head, some kind ear to receive his parting words? I hoped the former. A crowded hospital is a lonely place wherein to die.

"Will you see the body?" said the superintendent. We all have a natural repugnance to death, but in addition to this repugnance I remember the face of a friend with such distinctness that it is painful for me to impress on the living picture in my memory the marred and broken image of the dead. I therefore seldom join in the usual custom of viewing the corpse at funerals—never, if I can avoid it without giving pain to those who do not understand my motives. It consequently was with more than usual reluctance that I discharged this duty of ascertaining that no terrible mistake had occurred among the number coming and going, and dying in the hospital. We went down-stairs to the basement. Hitherto my experience with death had been only that of funerals, in the calm and quiet of peaceful life, where all that is most painful is softened or hidden, and death made to take the semblance of sleep. I can hardly say that I expected to see, as usual, the solitary coffin and its slumbering tenant, yet I certainly anticipated nothing different. "This is the dead-room," said the superintendent, as he unlocked and threw open a door. The name was the first intimation of something different. It was a narrow, gloomy room, and on the stone pavement, lay four white figures. They were decently attired in the hospital shroud, but the accustomed concealments of the undertaker's art were wanting. The staring eyes, the open mouth, the contracted face left little of the usual sleep-like repose of death. It was a ghastly sight. I felt like shrinking back to the outer air, but had to enter the room. The superintendent did not know Frank, so I was obliged to look at each. I glanced at the first. He was a young man with fair hair, and what had been bright blue eyes. They seemed to return my look so consciously that for a moment I could not avert my gaze. The look seemed to say, "You do not know me: we are strangers who have never met before, will never meet again." I glanced at the second, at the third. All were strangers, and all were young. The fourth I recognized. The room was so narrow that the figures reached from wall to wall, and as we went forward we had to step over each prostrate form. The corporal followed me, and looked long and earnestly at his friend. There had been no mistake. As we went out my eyes involuntarily turned to the others. It was probably the only look of pity they received. "Did they die during the night?" I inquired. "Yes!" "And has no officer or friend been with them?" "No!" "When will they be buried?" "In the afternoon." This, I fear, was all their funeral service. "Did they anticipate such a death and such a burial when they came from distant pleasant homes to serve in the great army?" I asked myself. And as I looked on them, thus neglected and deserted, I thought of the families and friends who would give much to stand as I stood beside them, to weep over their coffins, and to go with them to the grave.

The remains of my soldier it was determined should be sent to his family. He was dressed in his uniform, and on the following day the railroad swiftly carried him back to his old home.

When all was over, I gathered together his few effects. This the law makes the duty of an officer. There were also some unanswered letters to be returned—pleasant letters, beginning, "Dear Frank, we wish you merry Christmas!" and hoping he would have happy holidays in camp. And there was one touch of melancholy romance added; for hidden in the recesses of his pocket-book was a tress of hair, and on the wrapper a name; a letter, too, with the same signature. I determined that no curious eyes should run over these, and that they should not be the subject for careless tongues; so I carefully placed them in a separate package and sent them to one who perhaps will grieve the most.

And since I commenced this addition to my letter, there has been another interruption—a second victim of an unhealthy camp and crowded barracks. His death, poor boy, possessed fewer circumstances of interest. He was a German, with no family circle to be broken; a sister here, a brother there, and parents in a distant land. When told of Frank's death he seemed anxious, and whispered me that there were many dying in the hospital. The surgeon said there was no danger, but I saw it did not reassure him. On Sunday I got leave to send down one of my men, who was his friend, to the hospital, to be with him as a night nurse. On Monday I rode down. "How is Leonard?" was the first question to the surgeon. "He is very low," was the answer. I went up to his room. His friend sat by the cot, holding his hand. But the eyes were glazed, the pulse had stopped, and all was over. He had just died.

You may wish to know something of a soldier's funeral, not such as we have in Broadway, with music and processions, but such as are occurring here.

I asked leave for the squadron to attend the funeral, and the colonel said certainly, all who wished should go. At the appointed time we mounted and rode slowly to the hospital, accompanied by the chaplain of the regiment. We reached it soon, and the men were drawn up in line. Even in such scenes military discipline enables us to move more easily and rapidly than in ordinary life. A few commands in an unusually subdued voice were given. "Prepare to dismount." "Dismount!" "Ones and threes hold horses, twos and fours forward." Half of the squadron then passed by the coffin, and then relieved the others in holding the horses. All was done so quietly and quickly that it formed a contrast to a similar scene at an ordinary funeral. The ambulance came to the door. The ambulance carries the sick to the hospital, and the dead to the grave: it is the soldier's litter and his hearse.

About a mile from the hospital is the Wesleyan cemetery. I had ridden by it during the soft summer weather of the fall, and remarked how prettily it is situated upon the brow of a hill, with the city in view upon one side and the quiet country on the other, while large trees and mournful evergreens give an air of sadness and seclusion. It was a relief when the ambulance turned toward this peaceful resting place; though I wish that a soldiers' cemetery had been laid out where the numbers who die in St. Louis and the country around it, might rest together. We entered, and I quickly remarked a change since last I had passed that way. On one side, where had been a smooth, green lawn, there were straight rows and ranks of mounds, so regular and close that the ground looked as though it had been trenched by some thrifty gardener. These were the soldiers' graves. There were many—many of them. Two grave diggers were at work—constant work for them. A grave was always ready prepared, and one was ready for us. Our ceremonies were few and simple—the squadron drew up in line—the coffin was lifted out—the chaplain made a prayer—and we returned.

But in the same ambulance were two other coffins. No companion had been with them at the hospital, and no friends followed them to the grave. Unknown and, save by us chance strangers, unnoticed, they were laid to rest. This loneliness of their burial was very sad. We gave them all we could—a sigh, and paid them such respect as the circumstances allowed. We did not know them—who they were, or whence they came—only this, that they were American soldiers, fallen for their country.

I have heard it said that this war will make us a very warlike people. It is a mistake. Those who are engaged in it, while they will be ready again to rise in a just cause, will never wish for another war. I understand now why officers of real experience—be they ever so brave—always dread a war. There are too many such scenes as I have described. Yet do not think that any waver in their determination—and, while you pity, do not waver yourselves. We may blame mismanagement and neglect; and we must try to alleviate suffering and prevent needless disease and death, and only in the restoration of our Union hope for peace.

II. DONELSON.

Some letters from New York have said, "If you are ever in battle, do describe it." In this curiosity I have myself shared, and have always longed to know not only how the scene appeared, but how the spectator felt. I am able now to answer the question, and in so doing I will try and describe to you precisely how the attack appeared to me, without entering into an account of anything but what I saw, and how I felt.

It was by accident that I was at Fort Donelson, and with the attacking column. My regiment left me at St. Louis attending a court-martial. The court adjourned soon afterward, and then, with another member, an officer of the Fourteenth Iowa, I started for Fort Henry.

We descended the Mississippi to the narrow point where the Ohio joins it, and on which are the fortifications of Cairo. At Cairo there were no boats, save those of the government, conveying troops, and on one of these we went. It was the McGill, and on board was the regiment which was to lead the assault at Fort Donelson, the Second Iowa.

Up to the time of starting we supposed that the destination of the boat was Fort Henry, on the Tennessee. It was then announced, Fort Donelson on the Cumberland. We glided slowly up the Ohio, against its swollen current, and passed the mouth of the Tennessee during the night. I arose with the first gleam of light, and went on deck to find that we had entered the Cumberland. It seemed a narrow river, winding amid wooded hills and banks covered with noble oaks. The soldiers, who had passed the warm, moonlit night on deck, were rising, one by one, folding blankets and packing knapsacks. I turned from them to the river, and looked curiously for the people who dwelt in this, the rebel part of Kentucky.

For a short time there was nothing but woods. Then a little log house appeared upon the bank, a shed beside it, with its single horse and cow. It was a humble home, and hardly worth a second glance, a hundred such might be seen on the banks of any river; but in front of the door stood a sturdy little flag-staff, and from it waved the stars and stripes. The family had risen at the sound of the steamer. The mother stood in the doorway, holding an infant, and waving an apron. A little girl near by timidly tossed her hood around her head. Two ragged boys at the water's edge swung their caps joyfully. The father stood on a stump, hurrahing alone but lustily; and over them, in the dim grey light, fluttered their little flag. "They mean it," "They are honest," "There's no make-believe there," were the exclamations of the soldiers, as they crowded to the side of the boat and answered the father and his boys with their louder cheers. This was the first house we saw, and the warmest welcome we received; for though many hats were waved to us during the day, and a few flags shown, none equalled, in their manifest sincerity, the inmates of the little log house.

The day was soft and beautiful. We passed it upon the upper deck, laughing, chatting, and watching the shifting scenery of the winding river. A pleasure excursion it seemed to all; and again and again some one would remark, "We may be on the brink of battle, yet it seems as though we were travelling for pleasure."

Among the rough exteriors which campaigning gives, two officers of the Second were remarkable for their neat appearance. Some jokes were made at their expense, calling them the dandies of the regiment, and their state-rooms the band-boxes; and it was agreed that they were too handsome to be spoilt by scars. Two days afterward one of these, Captain Sleighmaker, fell at the head of his company, heroically charging the rebel breastworks. A little later, as I was galloping for the surgeons, I passed a wounded officer, borne by four soldiers in a blanket. As I rode by he called out, "We have carried the day, Captain." I looked around and saw it was the other, Major Chipman. "Are you badly hurt, Major?" I said, pulling up my horse. "No, not badly," he answered. "Don't stop for me;" and when the surgeon arrived he refused to have his wound dressed, and sent him to his men.

In the afternoon we overtook twenty steamboats laden with troops, and led by four black gunboats. They moved slowly and kept together, as if they feared approaching danger. Then came a change of weather, and night closed in upon us, dark and dreary, with cold and snow.

When the next morning broke I found we had made fast to the western shore. On either bank were high and wooded hills. The gunboats lay anchored in the middle of the stream, all signs of life hidden beneath their dark decks, save the white steam that slowly issued from their pipes, and floated gracefully away. Far down the river could be seen the troop-laden transports, moored to the trees along the bank. The sky was clear and bright; the forest sparkled with snow, and the warm waters of the river smoked in the frosty air. Such a picture I have never seen—never shall see again. As the troops began to debark, the band of the Second Iowa came out on the upper deck, and the dear "Star-spangled" echoed along the river. The men beat time, and hurrahed as the notes died away.

The place of landing was about three miles below Fort Donelson. I may here say that the fort itself is about half as large as the Battery, but that it is only a corner of a large square of earthworks stretching some two miles on each side. To avoid the cannon on the works it was necessary for us to make a circuit of several miles. The country was woods, high hills, and deep ravines. A glen that we entered after leaving the river bore a strange resemblance to one on my father's farm. As I looked around I could almost believe it was the same, through which, on just such bright winter mornings, I had driven the wood-sleigh or wandered with my gun. But the troops were marching, and I had no time to grow homesick. We passed, in the course of our march, a little log house. I went up to the door and spoke to the people. They seemed sad and dispirited. There had been firing between the pickets a day or two before, and a shower of balls had pattered around the house. The woman said she wished she were forty miles away, and the man said he would not care if he were a hundred.

A little girl was near the door, and I asked her what was her name, to which she replied, after a good deal of embarrassment, "Nancy Ann." I let Nancy Ann look through my spyglass; and, as she had never seen or even heard of one before, she was very much astonished. Nancy Ann's mother thereupon became quite hospitable, and invited me to come in and rest, but the column was then well nigh over the hill and I had to push on.

At last we reached the position assigned to us, and here we found the Fourteenth Iowa, to which my friend belonged, and with it I determined to remain until I could find my own regiment.

Around us were thick woods. A deep glen ran in front, and beyond this, along the brow of the opposite hill, ran those earthworks of the rebels which we were to win.

It was less than half a mile across; and occasionally a rifle ball fell near us, but the distance was too great for them to be effective. I looked through the trees and examined the hill with my glass, but could see nothing save the ridge of fresh-turned earth. Along the side of the hill were our sharpshooters watching the works. I could see them crawling up behind trees and stumps, sometimes dragging themselves along the ground, sometimes on their hands and knees. Their shots were frequent, and sounded as though a sporting party were below us. It was hard to believe that they were shooting at men. It was wonderful, too, how soon the mind accustomed itself to these strange circumstances. After the first half hour we took no more notice of the rifle shots than though some boys were there at play. Behind those earthworks were cannon as well as men. We were completely within range, and they could have sent their shot and shell amongst us at any time. The night before no fires had been allowed, as they would indicate our position to the rebels; but they were now burning, and around one of them three or four of us gathered to dine. As we sat down upon a log, we heard distant sounds of cannon along the river. "There go the gunboats; the fight has begun; they are shelling the rascals out," said everybody. We had taken for granted all the time, and, indeed, up to the last minute, that the gunboats would dismantle the fort, and that all we should have to do would be to prevent the escape of the rebels. In this we were much mistaken. The cannonade lasted an hour, and then stopped. We hoped the fort was taken, but no such news came to gladden us.

In watching the earthworks, in talking and warming ourselves at the camp-fires, the afternoon wore away. Evening came, and it was determined to risk the fires. Again we sat down beside one for supper. It consisted of hard pilot-bread, raw pork and coffee. The coffee you probably would not recognize in New York. Boiled in an open kettle, and about the color of a brown stone front, it was nevertheless our greatest comfort, and the only warm thing we had. The pork was frozen, and the water in the canteens solid ice, so that we had to hold them over the fire when we wanted a drink. No one had plates or spoons, knives or forks, cups or saucers. We cut off the frozen pork with our pocket knives, and one tin cup, from which each took a drink in turn, served the coffee.

It grew darker; the camp-fires burned brightly, and no threatening shot or shell had come from the Fort. Our sharpshooters and sentinels were between us and the rebels; and it was determined that we might sleep. The men stacked their arms, and wrapped themselves in their blankets around the fires. This was my first night out. Hitherto my quarters had been in houses; I had not even passed a night in a tent. A life among the comforts of New York is not a good preparative for the field. I had looked forward to a tent at this season with some little anxiety, but I was now to begin without even that shelter. My water-proof blanket and buffalo skin were also on board the steamer, so that I had to trust to the better fortune of my friends for these. We managed to find four blankets, two of them were wet and frozen, and a buffalo skin. The snow was scraped away from the windward side of the fire, and the two frozen blankets were laid on the ground—a log was rolled up for a wind-break, and the buffalo spread over the blankets. On this four of us were stretched, and very close and straight we had to lie. It fared ill with the trappings of military life; handsome great-coats were ignominiously rolled up like horse-blankets, and my beautiful sabre (the gift of North Moore street friends), ordinarily stained by no speck of rust or drop of rain, was tossed out in the snow, with pistols and spy-glasses, used in camp with the same gentle treatment.

For a few minutes I kept awake; the rebels were but fifteen minutes distant, and if they chose to make a night attack their shells might burst among us at any moment. The snow-flakes began to fall faster and faster. I slipt my head under the blanket and fell asleep. I can imagine that you will say we were to be pitied; but never did I sleep more sweetly. Soon after midnight the sound of cannon roused us. The snow was three inches deep upon our blankets, yet we were comfortable, and surprised to find it lying there. The ground, however, had thawed beneath us; and when we rose, the snow crept in among our blankets and wet them. Lying down was out of the question; we bent down a couple of saplings and spread blankets over them, making a little shed. Under this we crept, after piling plenty of wood upon our fire. The soldier's invariable comfort—his pipe—was at hand, and thus we chatted, smoked and dozed till daylight.

III. THE ASSAULT.

The sun of Saturday rose bright and clear, and more than one asked if it were an omen for us, or for the foe. The morning passed as did the day before; but about noon, word came up that far down on our right the rebels had attempted to cut their way out. They were driven back, but the fight was bloody, and it was said we had lost five hundred men. We were warned to be watchful—it was thought they might re-attempt it near us. I have said we were in front of a large glen or ravine; on our right were numerous regiments, making a chain which stretched to the river. On our left was the Second Iowa. This was all that I had seen of our position, and consequently is all that I shall describe now, inasmuch as I am giving it to you precisely as it appeared to me. Soon a mounted orderly rode by, who told us that a large body of rebels were moving up opposite us. Our men were called together, and stood near their stacked arms. A little while and General Smith and his staff came up—they passed by in front of us, but said nothing. At the same time the sharpshooters along the glen were unusually active, and there were repeated shots by them. We thought they saw the rebels mustering behind the breastworks. Everything seemed to indicate a sally from the rebels, and that we were to drive them back as they had been driven back in the morning. The men took their arms, officers loosened their pistol holsters. I hooked up my cavalry sabre, unbuttoned my great coat so that I could quickly throw it off, and took my place beside the lieutenant-colonel with whom I was to act. Then there came a painful, unpleasant pause; we heard nothing—saw nothing—yet knew that something was coming; what that something was no one could tell. A messenger came from the general—we were to move to the left and support the Second Iowa. We supposed the rebels were crossing a little higher up, and that the gap between us and the Second was to be closed. The colonel gave the order "left face," "forward march," and the regiment passed along through the thick trees in a column of two abreast. But the Second were not where they had been in the morning; we marched on, but did not come to them. In a few moments we passed their camp fires—a few more, and we emerged on an open field.

At a glance, the real object of the movement was apparent. It came upon us in an instant, like the lifting of a curtain. The Fourteenth were hurrying down through the field. The Second, in a long line, were struggling up the opposite hill, where two glens met and formed a ridge. It was high and steep, slippery with mud and melted snow. At the top, the breastworks of the rebels flashed and smoked, whilst to the right and left, up either glen, cannon were thundering. The attempt seemed desperate. Down through the field we went, and began to climb the hill. At the very foot I found we were in the line of fire. Rifle balls hissed over us, and bleeding men lay upon the ground, or were dragging themselves down the hill. From the foot to the breastworks the Second Iowa left a long line of dead and wounded upon the ground. The sight of these was the most appalling part of the scene, and, for a moment, completely diverted my attention from the firing. A third of the way up we came under the fire of the batteries. The shot, and more especially the shell, came with the rushing, clashing of a locomotive on a railroad. You heard the boom of the cannon up the ravine—then the sound of the shell—and then felt it rushing at you. At the top of the hill the firearms sounded like bundles of immense powder crackers. They would go r-r-r-r-rap; then came the scattered shots, rap, rap—rap-rap, rap; then some more fired together, rrrrrrap. This resemblance was so striking that it impressed me at the moment.

The bursting of the shells produced much less effect—apparent effect, I mean—than I anticipated. Their explosion, too, was much like a large powder cracker thrown in the air. There was a loud bang—fragments flew about, and all was over. It was so quickly done, that you had no time to anticipate or think—you were killed or you were safe, and it was over. But the most dispiriting thing was that we saw no enemy. The batteries were out of sight, and at the breastworks nothing could be seen but fire and smoke. It seemed as though we were attacking some invisible power, and that it was a simple question of time whether we could climb that slippery steep before we were all shot or not. But suddenly the firing at the summit ceased. The Second Iowa had charged the works, and driven out the regiments which held them. Then came the fire of the Second upon our flying foes, and then loud shouts along the line, "Hurrah, hurrah, the Second are in—hurry up, boys, and support them—close up—forward—forward." We reached the top and scrambled over the breastwork. I saw a second hill rising gradually before us, and on the top of it a second breastwork—between us and it about four hundred yards of broken ground. A second fire opened upon us from these inner works. We were ordered back, and, recrossing those we had taken, lay down upon the outer side of the embankment.

The breastwork that had sheltered the enemy now sheltered us. It was about six feet high on our side, and the men laid close against it. Occasionally a hat was pushed up above it, and then a rifle ball would come whistling over us from the second intrenchment. The batteries also continued to fire, but the shot passed lower down the hill, and did little execution. Having no specific duty to discharge, I turned, as soon as our troops reached the breastworks, and gave my aid to the wounded.

A singular fact for which I could not account was, that those near the foot of the hill were struck in the legs; higher up, the shots had gone through the body, and near the breastworks, through the head. Indeed, at the top of the hill I noticed no wounded; all who lay upon the ground there were dead. A little house in the field was used as a hospital. I tore my handkerchief into strips, and tied them round the wounds which were bleeding badly, and made the men hold snow upon them. I then took a poor fellow in my arms to carry to the little house. "Throw down your gun," I said, "you are too weak to carry it." "No, no," he replied, "I will hold on to it as long as I am alive." The house happened to be in the exact line of one of the batteries, and as we approached it, the shot flew over our path. Fortunately, the house was below the range, but one came so low as to knock off a shingle from the enable end. For a few minutes we thought they were firing on the wounded. We had no red flag to display; but I found a man with a red handkerchief, and tied it to a stick, and sent him on the roof with it. Within the house there were but three surgeons at this time. One of them asked me to take his horse and ride for the instruments, ambulances, and assistants; for no preparations had been made. It was then I passed Major Chipman carried by his soldiers.

When I returned, the ambulances were busy at their work; numerous couples of soldiers were supporting off wounded friends, and occasionally came four, carrying one in a blanket. The wounded men generally showed the greatest heroism. They hardly ever alluded to themselves, but shouted to the artillery that we met to hurry forward, and told stragglers that we had carried the day. One poor boy, carried in the arms of two soldiers, had his foot knocked off by a shell; it dangled horribly from his limb by a piece of skin, and the bleeding stump was uncovered. I stopped to tell the men to tie his stocking round the limb, and to put snow upon the wound. "Never mind the foot, captain," said he, "we drove the rebels out, and have got their trench, that's the most I care about." Yet I confess the sights and sounds were not as distressing as I anticipated. The small round bullet holes, though they might be mortal, looked no larger than a surgeon's lancet might have made. Only once did I hear distressing groans. A poor wretch in an ambulance shrieked whenever the wheels struck a stump. There was no help for it. The road was through the wood, the driver could only avoid the trees, and drive on regardless of his agony.

You will perhaps ask how I felt in the fight. There was nothing upon which I had had so much curiosity as to what my feelings would be. Much to my surprise I found myself unpleasantly cool. I did not get excited, and felt a great want of something to do. I thought if I only had something—my own company to lead on, or somebody to order, I should have much less to think about. There seemed such a certainty of being hit that I felt certain I should be, and after a few minutes had a vague sort of wish that it would come if it were coming, and be over with. The alarming effect of the bullets and shells was less than I supposed it would be, and my strongest sensation of danger was produced by the sight of the dead and wounded. The thing I was most afraid of was a panic among our men, and when the Seventh Illinois was ordered to fall back down the hill, I so much feared that the men might deem it a retreat that I entirely forgot the firing, and walked down in front of them talking to their major, so that any frightened man in the ranks might be reassured by our "matter of course" air. Take it altogether, I think I felt and acted pretty much as I do in any unusual and exciting affair. I know I found myself looking for an illustration of the effect of the shells, and wondering if there was no greater and grander illustration of the musketry than a bunch of powder crackers. I remember that I did little things from habit, as usual; when I threw off my overcoat, for example, I took a pipe which a friend had given me from the pocket, lest it should be lost; and I remember that I once corrected my grammar when I inadvertently adopted the western style of telling the men to lay down, and as I did so, I thought that one or two people at North Moore street would have been very apt to laugh if they had heard it. Yet for all this, I was by no means unconscious of danger. Some officers seemed utterly indifferent to it. Thus, in the fight of Thursday, Colonel Shaw, of the Fourteenth, after ordering his men to lie down, not only remained on horseback, but crossed his legs over the pommel of the saddle, sitting sidewise to be more comfortable. The sharpshooters of the enemy concentrated their fire on him, he being the only person visible. As the bullets thickened about him, the colonel said indignantly, "those rascals are firing at me, I shall have to move," and he threw his leg back, and walked his horse down to the other end of the line.

Our men lay in the trench all night, exposed to the western wind, which blew keenly round the summit of the hill—a large force of the enemy within a few yards, able to rush upon them at any moment.

I had gone back just after dark, with the adjutant, who had been hurt by the explosion of a shell, and my return with him saved me this. When morning came, we went back. As we reached the foot of the hill, we were told that a white flag had been displayed, and an officer had gone into the fort, but that the time was nearly up, and the attack was now to be renewed. We hurried on, expecting in a few moments to be in a second assault. We had nearly reached the trenches, when the men sprang from the ditch to the top of the breastwork, waving the colors and giving wild hurrahs. The fort had surrendered.

There was a load lifted off my mind, and I stopped to look around. The first glance fell on the blue coats scattered through the felled trees and stumps. The march of our troops up the hill had been somewhat in the form of a broom. Until near the top they had been in column, leaving a long, narrow line like the handle, and, as they rushed at the breastwork, they had spread out like the broom. This ground was plainly marked by the dead. Now that my attention was given, I was surprised to find how many were strewn upon the narrow strip. Here was one close to me; about the width of a class-room beyond was another; a little further on two had fallen, side by side. In a little triangle I counted eighteen bodies, and many I knew had been carried off during the night. Still the scene was not so painful as the dead-room of the hospital at St. Louis. The attitudes were peaceful. The arms were in all but one case thrown naturally over the breast, as in sleep; and no face gave any indication of a painful death. I passed on and entered the breastwork. It was about the height of a man. On top was a large log, and between the log and the earthwork a narrow slit. Through this they had fired on us. The log had hidden their heads, so that, while we were in plain view, they were to us an invisible foe. Immediately within were six more bodies of the Second Iowa, and one in simple homespun. He was the only one of the enemy upon the ground. The soldiers, gathering around him, looked as I did myself, with some curiosity upon one who had thus met the punishment of his treason. He had been shot through the back of the head while running, and his face expressed only wonderment and fright. It showed him a country-bred youth, illiterate, uncultivated—a contrast to the still intelligent faces that lay around him.

Meanwhile our troops were forming along the hill to take possession of the fort. All voices declared that the Second Iowa should lead. As it moved past the other regiments to the head of the column, the men cheered them, and the officers uncovered; but they seemed sad and wearied. I looked along their line, and found of the officers I knew hardly one was there.

It was a beautiful sight to see regiment after regiment mount the second breastwork, and watch them successively halt and cheer, and wave their colors as they crossed. I pushed on, scrambled over it, and found myself in the midst of five hundred of the prisoners. They were strange figures, in white blanket or carpet coats, having the same unintelligent faces as the one who had been killed outside. I stared at them, and they at me. They looked crestfallen and confused, but showed little feeling; and during the day I saw but few faces of common soldiers that awakened any pity. They, poor fellows, sat sadly looking at the scene. To one of them I spoke. He said he had done nothing to bring on the war; he had been for the Union, and had only enlisted a month before to avoid being impressed. His family lived, or had lived (he did not know where they were now), within a mile, and he would give a great, great deal to see them for only a minute. "Will your officers let me write to tell them I am alive?" "To be sure they will." "And will we be furnished with food?" "Yes, the same as our own soldiers." "Most of our men expected, if we surrendered unconditionally, that you would kill us." "You see we have not done so." "No, they have treated us very kindly: we have been deceived." Such was the tenor of our conversation. I may here say that our men behaved admirably; and I did not hear of a single indignity being offered to any of our prisoners. A few sentinels were placed around a regiment of prisoners, and, so far as appearances went, half of them might have escaped. But the woods around the fort contained regiments of our troops, and they knew the attempt would be hopeless. We were assigned the quarters of the Fiftieth Tennessee, and I slept in what had been the colonel's. It was a nice little house of oak blocks, laid up so that the wood and bark alternated, giving a very pretty tesselated appearance. They had all sorts of comforts, which we had never even hoped for at Camp Benton; and while we supposed they had been roughing it, found we had been roughing it ourselves.

We invited the colonel and some of his officers to spend the night with us. I confess they behaved with dignity. They made no complaints, and submitted with quiet resignation to their changed circumstances; but they were Tennesseans, and though they made no professions in words, convinced us that they had been Union men at heart and wished the Union back again. One of us remarked, that if those who had been released heretofore had not abused it, and violated their pledges and oaths, the prisoners at Fort Donelson would probably be released in the same way. The lieutenant-colonel said he wished it could be so; he was confident none of his men would be thus guilty. "But," he added, "I don't blame the Government for sending us North; I acknowledge that I am a rebel taken in arms, and it is fully justified in treating me accordingly."

It was a novelty indeed, thus spending the evening with our late opponents. We made no allusions that could, hurt their feelings, but talked over the events of the siege until a late hour. They told us the surrender was a thunder-clap to all. The men, and most of the officers, had not seen how completely they were surrounded, and had been made to believe that they were successful. The evening before they were told this, and in the morning it was announced that their generals had run away, and they were prisoners of war.

I now began to look about me and feel a little of the confusion that follows a battle. My trunk had been left on the steamer, and the steamer had moved; my blankets had been left in a hospital tent, and the hospital tent had disappeared; my regiment was fourteen miles off, at Fort Henry; the biscuit and coffee on which we had lived were gone, and provisions had not followed us into the fort. I procured a captured horse, and the next morning started at daylight for Fort Henry. As I passed a regiment in the woods, the commissary was dealing out a biscuit and a handful of sugar to each man for breakfast. He good naturedly said he would give me my share. After a long ride, I found my men camped in some woods, all well and bitterly disappointed at not having been at Fort Donelson.

IV. FORAGING.

In this military life, I find there is much quiet time, when the hours pass slowly and the men yawn and wish for something to do. With every change of camp, reading matter is lost or left behind; orders, too, have been given that the quantity of baggage be reduced; and here, in Tennessee, newspapers and letters hardly ever come. It is pleasant, then, to sit as I do now, under a tree in the warm sun, and talk with pencil and paper to your distant friends.

My previous letters have had so much in them gloomy or painful, that this time I will choose a more pleasant subject, and give you an account of my First Foraging.

Gipsy is the prettiest of horses. I should fail to describe my excursion, if I failed to describe Gipsy. Gipsy is one of those happy beings that everybody likes. No one ever quarrels with her. She has never been struck with a whip or touched by the spur, and knows not what either means. The soldiers all know Gipsy, and the Germans, who are always sociably inclined, generally say as they pass her, "Good morning, Shipsy;" at which Shipsy looks as pleased as anybody could. Gipsy is a small specimen of the Black Hawk race, jet black in color, and almost as delicate and agile in form as a greyhound, with the mischievous, restless eyes of a bright terrier.

Gipsy has several feminine traits of character—a good deal of vanity with a little affectation, and is withal something of a flirt. Put on a common soldier's bridle, and she goes very quietly; but change it for a handsome brass-mounted one, and Gipsy tosses her head as though the bridle were a new bonnet. If you say, "Come here, Gipsy," Gipsy walks off the other way; if you call her very loudly, Gipsy pricks up her ears, and seems completely absorbed in some object half a mile off; but walk away, and Gipsy puts up a piteous whinny, for you to come back and make it up. When I am riding alone, Gipsy generally does pretty much as she pleases—now trotting, now cantering, now dashing up hill on a gallop, her ears always pricked up, and her bright eyes examining every object on the road. When we come suddenly out of the woods upon a fine prospect, Gipsy stops and looks it over, with as much interest as though she were a landscape painter. If we come to a narrow stream, Gipsy (who greatly dislikes to wet her feet) stops again, looks deliberately up and down, selects the narrowest place, and then, without asking anybody's leave, proceeds there and bounds over. When thus riding without a companion, I find it very interesting to watch the beautiful intelligence of my little mare.

On her arrival at Fort Henry, Gipsy was greatly disgusted with Tennessee. For the clear, prairie fields of Missouri, she found nothing but thick woods, steep hills and muddy roads—no chance for her to run races or frolic here. For a week, the rain has fallen steadily on Gipsy; her water-proof blanket has kept her dry; but she is knee deep in mud, and has not lain down for three nights. No wonder she puts her ears back, and tries to look sulky. But an order has come for me to go with half the squadron and search for forage. The saddle and bridle are brought from the tent, and Gipsy brightens up at the sight. The men are soon ready; the clouds break away; the sun comes out; Gipsy takes her place at the head of the column, and throws her heels joyously in the air, champing the bit and tossing the white foam over her jetty coat.

The road is but a bridle-path through woods. The path is narrow, and the men must ride "by file." Perhaps you do not know that "by file," means one behind the other; "by twos," two side by side; and "by fours," four side by side. The next formation is "by platoon," or a quarter of a company; and the next "by squadron," or an entire company. We emerge on a small farm, waste and desolate. Straggling soldiers have broken into the house, and scattered about what few effects the rebel owner left. It is the first deserted house I have seen, and the sight is rather sad. Our road leads us again into the woods, and then brings us into the valley of the Tennessee, and follows the windings of the river. We pass several farms, small and poorly cultivated, with rude timber houses, by which I mean houses of squared logs. The chimneys are always built entirely on the outside, and are generally of sticks and mud, instead of brinks and mortar. Occasionally we halt to ask questions. The people are not surly, but they do not smile. This is the worst part of Tennessee, and it is plain they have sons and brothers among the prisoners of Fort Donelson. But at one house the man comes eagerly forward and his face lights; his wife, too, comes out, and says she almost hopes to see some face she knows. They have lived long here, but the man is from Eastern Tennessee, and the woman from Northern Alabama—those two remnants of the South that hung to the Union till the last. He tells us that the country produces little besides pigs and corn. "It is pork and corn dodger," he says, "at breakfast, dinner and tea all the year round." I ask where they grind the corn, and he mentions a large mill now despoiled by its owner, who took himself off to Memphis, and a little mill some three miles distant, owned by the "Widow Williams." It is an object to have some corn meal, so I determine to visit the Widow Williams' mill. The road to the mill turns abruptly from the river, and goes up a brook. We pass a few houses, scattered at intervals in the woods. The road is so much better than the other, that the men ride "by twos;" and so it should be, for it is the road from Dover to Paris. We pass one or two houses, whose owners are suspiciously young widows; in other words, we suspect that their deceased husbands are fighting with the rebels. At last we come to the Widow Williams, whom we do not suspect; for she is a grey-haired matron, who has seen sorrow, and she sits on the rude piazza with a family around her. The girls look nervously at us, for we are the first troop of soldiers they have had halt. The widow rises as I ride up, and says, with a good deal of dignity, "Please to alight, gentlemen;" and I take her at her word, and order, "dismount." I ask her if she can grind us some meal, and she rises in our good opinion by saying, "Not to-day, this is Sunday." It is indeed; but very little like one to us; we had almost forgotten the day. I then buy a bushel of meal for my own men, and go down with the widow's eldest son, who is a lad of fifteen, to get the meal and view the mill—a tiny little affair, and two of the men, who are millers, laugh when they see it. On coming back to the house, I find a group of the men have made themselves quite agreeable. They have come from the city, and doubtless are more refined and polished than any men these country girls have seen before. The youngest is some ten years old, named Martha, and I ask her if she is not afraid of us Northern mercenaries. Martha says no! and laughs at the idea; but when I ask her if we have not been called all sorts of names, and if she has not been told that we would burn her mother's house down, and cut her head off, Martha blushes, and the older sisters look confused. It is evident that we have had a very bad name here, and that they are now ashamed to own it. But we have a long circuit to make; the meal is stowed away in the haversacks; Widow Williams invites us to call again, and assures us we shall be welcome; I pretend to arrest Martha, and carry her off as prisoner; at which she is a little frightened and the rest a good deal amused; and then "fall in," "mount," "march," and off we go.

Gipsy is the smallest horse in the regiment, but to-day her feelings have been immense. She has borne herself as much like Gen. Washington's great charger as possible, and has champed the bit more fiercely and pranced more proudly than even he did. Her front is white with foam, and every look shows that she deems the head of the column her proper place. Whenever any horse has come within a respectful distance, Gipsy's heels have flown higher than his head, admonishing him, that whatever happens, she must be first. But the road, which has followed the bank, now crosses the brook. There is no friendly bridge to lift us over—the road leads down the bank, straight into the water. That water is wider than Sixth Avenue, and the recent rain has made it a roaring torrent—no one knows how deep, and it splashes and dashes fearfully. Gipsy looks up—looks down; no narrow place appears for her to bound over. Half of her airs and graces drop off at the sight. She hesitates a moment—the tramp of the horses behind tells her that she must decide quickly. She screws her courage up, and marches heroically down the bank. The first plunge, and the water dashes up on her breast—it is a foot higher on one side than the other, so swift is the current. It is cold and very wet—it roars louder than ever, and who can tell how deep it is ahead. Poor Gipsy! the last of the airs and graces are gone; so is her resolution. She wheels ingloriously round, and throws herself submissively behind the leading sergeant's horse. Him she follows meekly through the stream; on the other side, she continues so for a few yards; then she steals a glance ahead. There is no more water with its horrid noise in sight. She gives a slight champ on the bit, and moves up beside the sergeant's horse. A good, long look assures her of a dry road ahead. She bounds past, the airs and graces fly back as swiftly as they flew away; and in five minutes she is as vain a little Gipsy as ever she was before.

But it is one o'clock—horses and men are hungry, and just beyond us is a house. We see chickens, cows, sheep and pigs, but no smoke rises from the chimney. We halt; the sergeant enters the open door; comes back and reports it just what we want—a deserted house. In a few minutes the horses are unsaddled and tied to the fence, munching the corn we find in two large cribs. The poor cows welcome us, for they have not been fed since their owner ran away, and are almost starved. My order to the men is to take nothing but food, and to injure nothing needlessly. The sheep are caught, pronounced too thin, and let loose. But the chickens and pigs—after them there is a chase. There are shouts of excitement, intermingled with roars of laughter, as some brave pig charges between his pursuer's feet, and trips him up, and with the squeals and cacklings of the victims as they are caught. Within the house, we find a few things left, which the poor creatures probably overlooked as they hurried away. There is a jar of molasses on the shelf; a bag of dried peaches in the closet; a haunch of smoked venison, and a barrel of black walnuts in the garret. These last are a source of great entertainment for the men, who not only enjoy the most unusual luxury, but exult in the thought of a run-away rebel gathering nuts for them, and crack many jokes as they crack the shells. But the poor children, who picked them for their winter treat, now wandering homeless, and countryless, who can guess where! We have been so bred to respect private rights, that as I sit watching the men gather up the pigs and poultry, and fill their sacks with corn, I have a slight fear that the former owner may appear and charge us with stealing the property which his treason has forfeited to the Government. But no owner appears. The horses have done their corn and the men their biscuit; the molasses has been emptied into canteens, and a large bundle of corn leaves tied to every saddle—we must start.

Down the Dover road we go a mile or two, then turn up another bridle-path, which crosses and recrosses a little rill some thirty times. Two men ride before us, partly to accustom themselves to the duties of advance guard, partly to point out the intricate road. As we come round a turn, there are a farmer and his daughter (a young girl) on horseback before us. They have met the advance guard, and have stopped, and are looking back at them with fearful interest, completely absorbed in the sight. They do not even hear our approach, and I get near enough to hear the girl asking her father about these two Federal soldiers. The squadron is marching "by twos," and there is not room enough to pass. Ordinarily, private persons would have to get out of the way; but I think this a beautiful opportunity to be very polite, so I command "by file." Man and girl turn their heads as though a gun had gone off close to their ears. Such a look of fear and surprise I have never seen as in the poor girl's face. They are so hemmed in that they have to stand still until the whole column passes one by one, and the last we see of them they continue to stand there, looking back at us. It must seem like a vision, and they will have a tremendous tale to tell when they reach home. This road is so secluded that none of our soldiers have found it, and we cause a great stir in the few houses we pass. My men march silently, more like regulars than volunteers, and the inhabitants confess that they find in us an unexpected contrast to the noisy, yelling rascals, who a few weeks before were plundering them, for the good of the Southern Confederacy.

The sun has gone down, and the moon has risen, and we are on the main road from Fort Donelson, and will reach our camp soon, and have a good supper, and rest sweetly in our tents after our day's ride. We think over what we will have for supper, and debate whether the pigs, or chickens, or corn-meal can be added to the rations we shall find in camp. We are reckoning like inexperienced soldiers. The uncertainty of legal, is nothing to the uncertainty of military life. In the law you can at least calculate on your breakfast, and a part of your bed; but in camp you can calculate on nothing. We approach Fort Henry, and plunge into the mud that environs our camp. We struggle through till we come to the trees where the horses should be tied, and to the little knoll where the tents should be pitched. We look around in vague astonishment—horses, and men, and tents have vanished; all is darkness and silence; our camp has gone. To come home and find your home absconded, to leave your house in the morning and find it has walked away at the evening, is something new. Searching in the darkness for the new camp is folly; there is nothing to be done but wait till to-morrow. It is very easy to say wait, but how are we to wait? If we had some beds to wait in, and some supper to wait for, it would be tolerable; but we were only going for a little while, so we left our blankets, and it was such a fine day that we did not take our overcoats. Who would have dreamt of the colonel playing us such a trick? At Fort Donelson I learned the first lesson—"do not trust to your trunk;" now I have to learn the second—"do not trust to your camp." Hereafter I will not leave for half an hour without having my blanket rolled behind, and my overcoat strapped before. If I only had them now! But lamenting will do no good; something must be done. "Who has got any matches?" "Smith and Jones." "Then Smith and Jones light a fire." The fire soon blazes up and discloses a small pile, which the wagons have overlooked. There are a few blankets and overcoats, three plates, a couple of mess-pans, and one camp-kettle. A new discovery is made—some coffee and a sack of meat. "What kind?" "Pork." "Hurrah! we're all right now." "No, salt beef." "Pshaw! What do they send salt beef to the army for? If it had only been pork, we could have toasted it on sticks, and fried it on plates, and broiled it on the coals, and have greased the pans with it; but this beef, we can do nothing with." But' we have the bushel of meal I fortunately bought, and the chickens. Pick the chickens, and cut them up; mix some meal and water, and make corn dodgers, as the Tennessians do. There are the plates to bake it on, and we can try baking it in the ashes. But the coffee—everybody looks forward to it—no matter if it is poor and weak. Without milk, without sugar, and full of grounds, it is always the tired soldier's great restorative, his particular comfort. Our camp-kettle is set apart for it. The chickens must be stewed in pans and roasted on sticks. The camp-kettle is sacred for the coffee. "Captain," says somebody, "this coffee is not ground, and we have no mill. What shall we do?" "What indeed shall we do?" We must have coffee, and some one hits on the remedy; we take the tough linen bag of a haversack, put the coffee in it, and pound it on a log. Somewhat to our surprise, we find that it is soon well ground, and in the course of half an hour we have as good coffee as usual. Chicken and corn dodgers come along more slowly, but after awhile we sit around the fire to eat them; and everybody declares that he has had enough, and that it is very good. From supper to bed. The corn forage that we brought for the horses must be used for blankets. Spread on the ground, it makes a comfortable mattress. I have said that we had left our blankets; but, nevertheless, every man has one. Some years ago, a young cavalry captain, named McClellan, who (in my opinion) does all things quietly but well, observed that the padding of a saddle frequently got out of order, causing the poor horse a sore back, and requiring a saddler to put it in order again. He also remarked that the pad was of no other use than to play the part of cushion between the saddle and the horse's back. He thereupon introduced into the army what is now known as the McClellan saddle. It is made of wood, hollowed out so that on the one side it makes a comfortable seat for the man, and on the other conforms to the shape of the horse. A narrow slit is cut out over the backbone, which not only saves the horse's spine, but makes it much more cool and comfortable for him. And, finally, the padding consists of a horse blanket folded up. Thus, to the wise, judicious foresight of General McClellan, each of us is indebted for a blanket.

Lying on my cornleaf couch, and looking up at the clear sky, within the glow of our fire, is as pleasant a situation after a long ride as one could desire. I think it delightful, and while thinking so, drop asleep. But there is one more lesson in store for us before daylight. After some hours, I am awoke by a tremendous noise. There are no stars now. The sky is black as ink—the darkness is such that we can see nothing but the half-burnt brands of the fires. The wind howls through the trees like a pack of wolves, and scatters our fires so that the coals fly over our heads, and fall on our blankets and beds. The rain is not come yet, but is coming—we shall be drenched, and then have to sit up in the darkness and shiver till daylight. It is a dismal prospect. Pitter, patter on the leaves. Now we are in for it: the drops thicken; in a minute we shall be as wet as water. But Nature only means to give us a fright. The rain does not increase—the drops stop—the wind howls less loudly. Soon, through a rent in the clouds is seen a star, and then another. The rent grows larger, and every one takes a long breath, and says, "The storm has passed round." We lie down again, and wake up to find it a bright, frosty morning.