"War makes demons of us all," thought Fred.

The story of that fight was long a theme around the camp fire, and the
three soldiers who survived never tired of telling it. As for Fred, he
spoke of it with reluctance, and could not think of it without a
shudder. Fifteen men never engaged in a bloodier conflict, even on the
"dark and bloody ground" of Kentucky.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE MEETING OF THE COUSINS.

General Thomas sat in his headquarters at Lebanon looking over some
dispatches which Fred had just brought from General Schoepf at Somerset.
His face wore a look of anxiety as he read, for the dispatches told him
that General Zollicoffer had crossed to the north side of the Cumberland
river and was fortifying his camp at Beech Grove.

"I may be attacked at any moment," wrote General Schoepf, "and you know
how small my force is. For the love of heaven, send me reinforcements."

The general sat with his head bowed in his hands thinking of what could
be done, when an orderly entered with dispatches from Louisville. Thomas
opened them languidly, for he expected nothing but the old story of
keeping still and doing nothing. Suddenly his face lighted up; his whole
countenance beamed with satisfaction, and turning to Fred he said:

"My boy, here is news for us, indeed. General Buell has at last
consented to advance. He has given orders for me to concentrate my army
and attack Zollicoffer at the earliest possible moment."

Fred could not suppress a hurrah.

"General," he exclaimed, "I already see Zollicoffer defeated, and hurled
back across the Cumberland."

General Thomas smiled. "Don't be too sanguine, Fred," he said; "none of
us know what the fortune of war may be; we can only hope for the best.
But this means more work for you, my boy. You will at once have to
return with dispatches to General Schoepf. Everything depends on his
holding his position. Somerset must be held at all hazards."

"I am ready to start this minute with such tidings," gayly responded
Fred. "Prince, poor fellow, will have it the hardest, for the roads are
awful."

"That is what I am afraid of," replied the general. "I hope to be with
Schoepf within a week, but, owing to the condition of the roads, it may
take me much longer."

Within an hour Fred was on his way back to Somerset. It was a terrible
journey over almost impassable roads; streams, icy cold, had to be
forded; but boy and horse were equal to the occasion, and in three days
reached Somerset.

How was it with General Thomas? His week lengthened into three. He
commenced his march from Lebanon on December 31st; it was January 18th
before he reached his destination. The roads seemed bottomless. The
rain poured in torrents, and small streams were turned into raging
rivers. Bridges were swept away, and had to be rebuilt. The soldiers,
benumbed with chilling rain, toiled on over the sodden roads, cheerful
in the thought that they were soon to meet the enemies of their country.

General Schoepf received the news of General Thomas' advance with great
satisfaction.

"If I can only hold on," he said, "until Thomas comes, everything will
be all right."

"We must show a bold front, General," replied Fred, "and make the enemy
believe we have a large force."

"It's the enemy that is showing a bold front nowadays," replied General
Schoepf, with a faint smile. "They have been particularly saucy lately.
They have in the last few days, cut off two or three small scouting
parties. But what worries me the most is that there is hardly a night
but that every man on some one of our picket posts is missing. There is
no firing, not the least alarm of any kind, but the men in the morning
are gone. It is a mystery we have tried to solve in vain. At first we
thought the men had deserted, but we have given that idea up. The men
are getting superstitious over the disappearance of so many of their
comrades, and are actually becoming demoralized."

"General, will you turn this picket business over to me?" asked Fred,
quietly.

"Gladly," replied the general. "I have heard much of your ability in
ferreting out secret matters. Your success as a scout I am well
acquainted with, as you know. I hope you will serve me as well in this
matter of the pickets, for I am at my wits' end."

"Well, General, to-morrow I will be at your service, and I trust you
will lose no more pickets before that time," and so saying Fred took his
leave, for he needed rest badly.

The next morning, when Fred went to pay his respects to the general, he
found him with a very long face. "Another post of four men disappeared
last night," he said.

Fred gave a low whistle. "Well, General, if possible, I will try and
solve the problem, but it may be too hard for me."

"Have you any idea yet how they are captured?" asked the general.

"None at all. I must first look over the ground carefully, see how the
men are posted, talk with them, and then I may be able to form an idea."

Fred's first business was to ride out to where the post had been
captured during the night. This he did, noting the lay of the ground,
carefully looking for footprints not only in front, but in the rear of
where the men had been stationed. He then visited all the picket posts,
talked with the men, learned their habits on picket, whether they were
as watchful as they should be--in fact, not the slightest thing of
importance escaped his notice.

On his return from his tour of inspection, Fred said to General
Schoepf, "Well, General, I have my idea."

"What is it?" asked the general, greatly interested.

"Your pickets have been captured from the rear, not the front."

"What do you mean?" excitedly asked the general.

"I mean that some of the pickets are so placed that a wary foe could
creep in between the posts and come up in the rear, completely
surprising the men. I think I found evidence that the men captured last
night were taken in that way. I found, at least, six posts of which I
believe an enemy could get in the rear without detection, especially if
the land had been spied out."

"You astonish me," said the general. "But even if this is so, why does
not the sentinel give the alarm?"

"He may be in such a position that he dare not," answered Fred.

"What do you propose?"

"That a double force be put on the posts, half to watch the rear. It
will be my business to-night to see to that."

"Very well," replied General Schoepf. "I shall be very curious to see
how the plan works, and whether your idea is the correct one or not."

"I will not warrant it, General," replied Fred, "but there will be no
harm in trying."

Just before night Fred made a second round of the picket posts, and
made careful inquiry whether any one of the posts had been visited
during the day by any one from the outside.

All of the posts answered in the negative save one. The corporal of that
post said: "Why, a country boy was here to sell us some vegetables and
eggs."

"Ah!" replied Fred. "Was he a bright boy, and did he seem to notice
things closely?"

"On the contrary," said the corporal, "he appeared to be remarkably dull
and ignorant."

"Has the same boy been in the habit of selling vegetables to the
pickets?" asked Fred.

Come to think about it, the corporal believed he had heard such a boy
spoken of.

Then one of the men spoke up and said:

"You know Rankin was on the post that was taken in last night. He had a
letter come yesterday, and I took it out to him, and he told me of what
a fine supper they were going to have, saying they had bought some eggs
and a chicken of a boy."

"Jerusalem!" suddenly exclaimed the corporal, "that boy to-day walked to
the rear some little distance--made an excuse for going; he might not
have been such a fool as he looked."

"Thank you," replied Fred. "Corporal, I will be here a little after dark
with a squad of men to help you keep watch. In the mean time keep a
sharp lookout."

"That I will," answered the corporal. "Do you think that boy was a
spy?" he then asked, with much concern.

"I don't know," answered Fred. "But such a thing is possible. But if any
trouble occurs on the picket line to-night, it will be at this post."

That night Fred doubled the pickets on six posts which he considered the
most exposed. But the extra men were to guard the rear instead of the
front. The most explicit instructions were given, and they were
cautioned that they were to let no alarm at the front make them relax
their vigilance in the rear. Thirty yards in the rear of the post where
he was to watch Fred had noticed a small ravine which led down into a
wood. It was through this ravine that he concluded the enemy would creep
if they should try to gain the rear of the post. Fred posted his men so
as to watch this ravine. To the corporal who had charge of the post, he
said:

"My theory is, that some one comes up to your sentinel, and attracts his
attention by pretending to be a friend, or perhaps a deserter. This, of
course, will necessitate the sentinel's calling for you, and naturally
attract the attention of every man awake. While this is going on, a
party that has gained the rear unobserved will rush on you and be in
your midst before you know it, and you will be taken without a single
gun being fired."

The corporal and his men looked astonished.

"Zounds!" said one, "I believe it could be done."

"Now," continued Fred, "if you are hailed from the front to-night act
just as if you had not heard of this. I will take care of the rear."

When everything was prepared the soldiers, wrapped in their blankets,
sat down to wait for what might come. So intently did they listen that
the falling of a leaf would startle them. The hours passed slowly away.
There was a half-moon, but dark clouds swept across the sky, and only
now and then she looked forth, hiding her face again in a moment. Once
in a while a dash of cold rain would cause the sentinels to shiver and
sink their chins deeper into the collars of their great coats.

Midnight came, and still all was quiet. The soldiers not on guard lay
wrapped in their blankets, some of them in the land of dreams.

Off in the woods the hoot of an owl was heard. Instantly Fred was all
attention. A few minutes passed, and again the dismal "Whoo! whoo!" this
time much nearer. Fred aroused his men. Instantly they were all
attention, and every sense alert.

"Have you heard anything?" whispered the sergeant, next to him.

"Nothing but the suspicious hooting of an owl," whispered back Fred.
Then to the soldiers, "Perfectly still, men; not a sound."

So still were they that the beatings of their hearts could be heard.
Again the dismal hoot was heard, this time so near that it startled
them.

Then from the sentinel out in front came the short, sharp challenge,
"Who comes there?"

He was answered immediately. "A deserter who wishes to come into the
lines and give himself up."

"Stand! Corporal of the guard!"

The corporal went forward to receive the deserter. Now there came the
sound of swiftly advancing footsteps in front of the rear post, and dim
figures were seen through the darkness.

"Fire!" shouted Fred.

Seven rifles belched forth their contents, and for a moment the flashes
of the guns lighted up the scene, and then all was dark.

There were cries of pain, hoarse yells of surprise and anger, and then a
scattering volley returned.

"Use your revolvers," shouted Fred, and a rapid fire was opened.

"Fall back!" shouted a voice from the darkness. There were a few more
scattering shots, and all was still.

The deserter, who was so anxious to give himself up, the moment the
alarm was given fired at the sentinel and vanished in the darkness.

The sound of the firing created the wildest commotion in camp. The long
roll was beaten; the half-dressed, frightened soldiers came rolling out
of their tents, some without their guns, others without their cartridge
boxes; excited officers in their night clothes ran through the camp,
waving their bare swords and shouting: "Fall in, men, for God's sake,
fall in."

It was some minutes before the excitement abated, and every one was
asking, "What is it? what is it?"

The officer of the day, with a strong escort, came riding out to where
the firing was heard. Being challenged, he gave the countersign, and
then hurriedly asked what occasioned the firing.

"Oh," cheerfully responded Fred, "they tried to take us in, and got
taken in themselves."

An examination of the ground in front of where Fred's squad was
stationed revealed two Confederates still in death, and trails of blood
showed that others had been wounded.

"You can go to your quarters," said Fred to his men. "You will not be
needed again to-night; and, Lieutenant," said he, turning to the officer
of the day, "each and every one of these men deserves thanks for his
steadiness and bravery."

"I hardly think, General," said Fred, the next morning, as he made his
report, "that your pickets will be disturbed any more."

As for General Schoepf, he was delighted, and could not thank Fred
enough.

For three or four days things were comparatively quiet. Then a small
scouting party was attacked and two men captured. The next day a larger
party was attacked and driven in, with a loss of one killed and three
wounded. The stories were the same; the leader of the Confederates was a
young lieutenant, who showed the utmost bravery and handled his men with
consummate skill.

"I wish," said General Schoepf to Fred, "that you would teach this
young lieutenant the same kind of a lesson that you taught those fellows
who were capturing our pickets."

"I can try, General, but I am afraid the job will not only be harder,
but much more dangerous than that one," answered Fred.

"This same young lieutenant," continued the general, "may have had a
hand in that picket business, and since he received his lesson there has
turned his attention to scouting parties."

"In that case," replied Fred, "it will take the second lesson to teach
him good manners. Well, General, I will give it to him, if I can."

The next morning, with eight picked men from Wolford's cavalry, Fred
started out in search of adventure.

"Don't be alarmed, General," said Fred, as he rode away, "if we do not
come back to-night. We may take a notion to camp out."

Many of their comrades, with longing eyes, looked after them, and wished
they were of the number; yet they did not know but that every one was
riding to death or captivity. Yet such is the love of adventure in the
human breast that the most dangerous undertakings will be gladly risked.

After riding west about three miles Fred turned south and went about the
same distance. He then halted, and after a careful survey of the country
ahead, said: "I think, boys, it will be as well for us to leave the road
and take to the woods; we must be getting dangerously near the enemy's
country."

The party turned from the road and entered a wood. Working their way
through this, skirting around fields, and dashing across open places,
after making a careful observation of the front, they managed to proceed
about two miles further, when they came near the crossing of two main
roads. Here they stopped and fed their horses, while the men ate their
scanty fare of hard bread and bacon.

They had not been there long before a squadron of at least 200
Confederate cavalry came from the south, and turning west were soon out
of sight.

"I hardly think, boys," said Fred, "it would have paid us to try to take
those fellows into camp; we will let them go this time," and there was a
twinkle in his eye, although he kept his face straight.

"Just as you say, capt'in," replied one of the troopers, as he took a
chew of tobacco. "We would have gobbled them in if you had said the
word."

A little while after this a troop of ten horsemen came up the same road,
but instead of turning west they kept on north. At the head of the troop
rode a youthful officer.

One of the soldiers with Fred was one of the number that had been
attacked and defeated two days before by the squad of which they were in
search.

"That's he, that's the fellow!" exclaimed the soldier, excitedly.

Fred's breath came thick and fast. What he had come for, fate had thrown
in his way.

"They are only one more than we!" he exclaimed.

"If they were double, we would fight them," cried the men all together.

"Let them pass out of sight before we pursue," said Fred. "The farther
we get them from their lines the better."

"Now," said Fred, after they had waited about five minutes. A ride of a
few minutes more brought them into the road. Halting a moment, Fred
turned to his men and said:

"Men, I know every one of you will do your duty. All I have to say is
obey orders, keep cool, and make every shot count. Forward!"

With a cheer they followed their gallant young leader. After riding
about two miles, Fred reined up and said: "They have not dodged us, have
they, boys? We ought to have sighted them before this. Here is where we
turned off of the road. By heavens! I believe they noticed that a squad
of horsemen had turned off into the woods, and are following the tracks.
Let's see," and Fred jumped from his horse, and examined the tracks
leading into the woods.

"That's what they did, boys," said he, looking up. "I will give that
lieutenant credit for having sharp eyes. Now, boys, we will give him a
surprise by following."

They did not go more than half a mile before they caught sight of the
Confederates. Evidently they had concluded not to follow the tracks any
farther, for they had turned and were coming back, and the two parties
must have sighted each other at nearly the same moment.

There was the sharp crack of a carbine, and a ball whistled over the
Federals' heads.

"Steady, men," said Fred. "They are coming."

But he was mistaken. The young lieutenant who led the Confederates was
far too careful a leader to charge an unknown number of men. Instead of
charging the Confederates dismounted, and leaving their horses in charge
of two of their number the rest deployed and advanced, dodging from tree
to tree, and the bullets began to whistle uncomfortably close, one horse
being hit.

"Dismount, and take the horses back," was Fred's order. "We must meet
them with their own game." The two men who were detailed to take the
horses back went away grumbling because they were not allowed to stay in
the fight.

Telling them to keep well covered, Fred advanced his men slightly, and
soon the carbines were cracking at a lively rate.

But the fight was more noisy than dangerous, every man being careful to
keep a tree between himself and his foe.

"This can be kept up all day," muttered Fred, "and only trees and
ammunition will suffer. I must try something else."

Orders were given to fall back to the horses, and the men obeyed
sullenly. A word from Fred, and their faces brightened. Mounting their
horses, they rode back as if in disorderly retreat.

As soon as the Confederates discovered the movement, they rushed back
for their horses, mounted, and with wild hurrahs started in swift
pursuit of what they thought was a demoralized and retreating foe.

Coming to favorable ground, Fred ordered his men to wheel and charge. So
sudden was the movement that the Confederates faltered, then halted.

"Forward!" cried their young leader, spurring his horse on, but at that
moment a chance shot cut one of his bridle reins. The horse became
unmanageable, and running under the overhanging branches of a tree, the
gallant lieutenant was hurled to the ground. His men, dismayed by his
fall, and unable to withstand the impetuous onslaught of the Federals,
beat a precipitate retreat, leaving their commander and two of their
number prisoners in the hands of their foes. Two more of their men were
grievously wounded. Three of the Federals had been wounded in the mêlée.

Fred dismounted and bent over the young lieutenant, and then started
back uttering an exclamation of surprise and grief. He had looked into
the face of his cousin, Calhoun Pennington. Hurriedly Fred placed his
hand on the fallen boy's heart. It was beating. There was no sign of a
wound on his body.

"Thank God! He has only been stunned by the fall," exclaimed Fred.

In the mean time the five remaining Confederates had halted about a
quarter of a mile away, and were listening to what a sergeant, now in
command, was saying.

"Boys," he exclaimed, "it will be to our everlasting shame and disgrace
if we run away and leave the lieutenant in the hands of those cursed
Yankees. Some of them must be disabled, as well as some of us. Let us
charge and retake the lieutenant, or die to a man in the attempt."

"Here is our hand on that, Sergeant," said each one of the four, and one
after the other placed his hand in that of the grim old sergeant.

But just as they were about to start on their desperate attempt, they
were surprised to see Fred riding towards them, waving a white
handkerchief. When he came in hailing distance, he cried:

"Men, your gallant young leader lies over here grievously hurt. We are
going to withdraw," and wheeling his horse, he rode swiftly back.

Fred hastily made preparations to withdraw. One of his men was so badly
wounded that he had to be supported on his horse; therefore their
progress was slow, and it was night before they reached camp. Fred made
his report to General Schoepf and turned over his two prisoners. The
general was well pleased, and extended to Fred and the soldiers with him
his warmest congratulations.

"If you had only brought in that daring young lieutenant with you your
victory would have been complete," said the general.

"I hardly think, General," said Fred, "that you will be troubled with
him any more. He was still insensible when we left, and with my three
wounded men and the two prisoners it was well-nigh an impossibility for
us to bring him in."

"I know," replied the General, "and as you say, I think we have had the
last of him."

"I sincerely hope so," was Fred's answer as he turned away, and it meant
more than the general thought. Fred had a horror of meeting his cousin
in conflict, and devoutly prayed he might never do so again. He slept
little that night. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the pale
face of his cousin lying there in the wood, and the thought that he
might be dangerously hurt, perhaps dead, filled him with terror. "Why,"
he asked himself over and over again, "did the fortune of war bring us
together?"

Let us return to the scene of the conflict, and see how Calhoun is
getting along. The Confederates received Fred's message with surprise.

"That lets us out of a mighty tough scrape," remarked the sergeant. "We
must have hurt them worse than we thought."

"Don't know about that," answered one of his men who was watching the
Federals as they retired. "There is only one of them who appears to be
badly hurt; and they have poor Moon and Hunt in limbo, sure."

"Better be prisoners than dead," answered the sergeant. "But, boys, let
us to the lieutenant. It's strange the Yanks didn't try to take him
back."

When they reached Calhoun, he was already showing signs of returning
consciousness, and in a few minutes he was able to sit up and converse.

"Where are the Yankees?" was his first question.

"Gone."

"Then we whipped them after all," and his face lighted up with joy.

"Can't say that we did, Lieutenant," answered the sergeant; "but they
left mighty sudden for some reason."

Calhoun looked around on his men with a troubled countenance. "I see
only five of you," he said; "where are the rest?"

"Two are back nursing wounds," answered the sergeant. "Sheldon is hit,
so hard hit I am afraid he is done for. As for Moon and Hunt, they have
gone off with the Yanks."

"Prisoners?"

The sergeant nodded.

The tears rolled down the cheeks of the young officer. "Boys," he said,
chokingly, "I believe I have lost my grip. There was that last picket
affair that went against us, and now we are all broken up in a fair
combat."

"Don't take on, Lieutenant," said the sergeant, soothingly. "It was that
chance bullet that cut your bridle rein that did the business. If it
hadn't been for that we would have wiped them out, sure. As it is, we
are thankful they didn't take a notion to lug you off."

"Perhaps they thought I was dead."

"No, they didn't," replied the sergeant, and then he told Calhoun what
had happened.

"What kind of a looking man was the leader of the Yanks?" asked Calhoun.

"He was a boy, no older than yourself. He was mounted on a magnificent
bay horse with a star in the forehead.

"I see it all," sighed Calhoun. "The leader of that party was my cousin,
Fred Shackelford. He knew me, and he spared me. Boys, help me on my
horse. I am badly shaken up, but not seriously hurt. We will square
accounts with those fellows one of these days."

And the little party, bearing their wounded, sadly wended their way back
to the Confederate camp.

For the next few days the weather was so bad and the roads in such a
terrible condition that both armies were comparatively quiet. Nothing as
yet had been heard from the advance of General Thomas, and General
Schoepf began to be very uneasy. At last Fred offered to ride toward
Columbia, and see if he could not get some tidings of the missing
column. The offer was gladly accepted, and Fred set out. He met with no
adventure until about fifteen miles from Somerset, when he suddenly came
face to face with a young soldier, and he supposed a Federal, as he wore
a blue great coat. But a second look caused a cry of surprise to burst
from Fred's lips, and at the same time the supposed Federal soldier
snatched a revolver from the holster. The cousins were once more face to
face.

"Put up your revolver, Calhoun," cried Fred. "Is that the way you greet
your cousin?"

For a moment Calhoun gazed on Fred in silence, then raising his hand in
courtly salute, he suddenly turned his horse, and jumping him over a low
fence, disappeared in a copse of wood.

Fred was on the point of raising his voice to call him back, when it
flashed upon him that Calhoun had been playing the spy, and that he dare
not stop, even for a moment.

"He was only stunned after all, when he was hurled from his horse,"
thought Fred. "I am so glad; a heavy load has been lifted from my mind.
I am also glad he has gone now. It would have been extremely awkward for
me to have found out he was a spy, and then let him go."

It was with a lighter heart that he pursued his journey, but he had gone
but a short distance when he met a courier from General Thomas with
dispatches for General Schoepf. He was informed that the advance of
General Thomas was but a short distance in the rear. A few moments more
and Fred was in the presence of his general.

"Ah, Shackelford!" said Thomas, "I am glad to see you. How is everything
at Somerset?"

"All right, General, only General Schoepf has been sorely worried over
your non-appearance."

"I do not wonder. The march has been an awful one, and has taken three
times as long as I expected. But we will be at Logan's Cross Roads
to-night, where I shall halt to concentrate my army. If the enemy does
not retreat, we may look for a lively time in about three days."

"The lively time, General, may come before three days," answered Fred,
significantly.

"How is that?" asked Thomas, looking surprised.

"The Rebels may conclude," answered Fred, "to attack you before you can
bring up the rest of your force, or get aid from Somerset. Fishing Creek
is very high; I had to swim it. It will be almost impossible to get
infantry or artillery over."

"I have thought of that," replied the general, smiling. "I shall try and
be ready for them if they come."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE BATTLE OF MILL SPRINGS.

Fred was right in his surmise that Calhoun had been acting the part of a
spy. He had been playing a very dangerous game, and had been successful.
Disguised as a country boy, he had boldly entered Columbia, and in a
great measure had fathomed the plans of General Thomas. It was a matter
of common report that as soon as the army could be concentrated, General
Zollicoffer would be attacked. Calhoun had made a careful estimate of
the strength of Thomas' army, and when met by Fred he was taking an
observation of his order of march, and how long it would take the rear
brigade to reinforce the advance brigade, if it should be attacked.

The sudden meeting with Fred was a surprise to him. But when he heard
Fred's voice he knew his life was in no danger; yet he dare not tarry,
even for a moment, and so escaped as we have seen.

No sooner was he out of sight of Fred than he checked his horse. "That
was a lucky escape," he said to himself. "If I had to meet any one, it
was fortunate I met Fred. Poor fellow! I wonder what he thought of me!
I would so much like to have a talk with him, but it would have been
madness to have stopped, and then it would have placed him in a very
awkward predicament. Selim, old boy," continued he, patting his horse's
neck, "we have work yet before us; we must see where General Thomas
camps."

It was early on the morning of January 18th that Calhoun rode into the
Confederate camp at Beech Grove. Without changing his mud-bespattered
garments, he at once sought the quarters of Major-General G. B.
Crittenden, who had been placed in chief command of the army.

"Ah, Lieutenant," exclaimed the general, "I am glad to see you. I have
been thinking of you, and blaming myself for permitting you to go on
your hazardous adventure. He who acts as a spy takes his life in his
hands."

"It is an old saying that 'all is well that ends well,'" Calhoun
answered, smiling. "You ought to have seen what a splendid country
bumpkin I made; and I have succeeded beyond my most sanguine
expectations. I have very important news for you, General. General
Thomas is now encamped at Logan's Cross Roads, only ten miles away. He
will wait there for his rear brigade, and also for reinforcements from
Somerset. He has only one brigade with him, numbering not much over
4,000 men."

Calhoun then went on and gave General Crittenden the full details of the
strength of the Federal army, saying that he thought the rear brigade
of Thomas' army could not reach Logan's Cross Roads for at least two
days, and that owing to the height of water in Fishing Creek he believed
it impossible for Thomas to receive reinforcements from Somerset.

"If these forces all combine, General," continued Calhoun, "they will so
far outnumber us that it would be madness to risk a battle. To-morrow
Thomas will be isolated; his force is inferior to yours. I believe he
can be crushed."

"You think that your information as to numbers and position is
absolutely correct, do you?" asked the general.

"I do, General," answered Calhoun. "If you attack General Thomas in the
morning I am confident you will attack with a superior force."

"It is either that or a disastrous retreat," said the general, gravely.
"I will call a council of my officers at once. I wish you to appear
before them."

"As soon as I can get off some of this mud I will be ready," answered
Calhoun.

The council was called, and General Crittenden laid the facts before his
officers. Calhoun was asked a great many questions, to all of which he
gave full and sufficient answers. The council, without a dissenting
voice, voted to attack Thomas the next morning.

It was nearly midnight when the Confederates marched out of their
entrenchments, General Zollicoffer's brigade having the advance.
Calhoun acted as aid on the staff of General Crittenden. The distance,
ten miles, made a fearful night march, considering the roads. Calhoun
afterwards said that it was one of the worst marches he ever made. The
night was dark and gloomy. A cold drizzling rain fell that chilled the
soldiers to the very bone. Through the rain and the mud for hour after
hour the brave men of the Confederacy toiled on, animated by the hope
that they would soon meet and hurl back in inglorious defeat the men
whom they considered ruthless invaders of their soil. It took nearly
seven hours to march that ten miles, every step being taken through mud
and water, sometimes nearly knee deep.

Just as the gray shadows in the east betokened the ushering in of the
short January day, the crack! crack! of guns in front told that the
Federal pickets had been alarmed. The sharp reports of those guns as
they echoed back along the mud-stained ranks caused the weary soldier to
forget his weariness. The cold was no longer felt, the excitement of the
coming battle sent the blood tingling through the veins.

It is time to turn now to General Thomas and his little army that lay
encamped at Logan's Cross Roads in the darkness and shadows of that
gloomy night. Couriers had been sent back to hurry up the rear brigade;
orders had been sent to General Schoepf to at once forward three
regiments, but General Thomas well knew if he was attacked in the
morning none of these reinforcements would reach him.

The general sat in his tent, listening to Fred giving an account of what
had happened at Somerset during the three weeks he had been there. He
was especially interested in the account Fred gave of his picket fight.

"That, Shackelford," said the general, "was strategy worthy of a much
older head. Your little fight was also admirably managed."

"I had rather it had been against any one than my cousin," answered
Fred.

"Such things cannot be avoided," answered Thomas, with a sigh. "This is
an unhappy war. I am a Virginian, and must fight against those who are
near and dear to me."

Fred did not answer; he was thinking of his father.

The general sat as if buried in deep thought for a moment, and then
suddenly looking up, said:

"Shackelford, you know when we were going into camp this evening that
you said you feared an attack in the morning."

"I am almost positive of it, General," was Fred's reply.

"Will you give me your reasons?"

"Because the enemy is well posted and must know that you mean to attack
them when your forces are consolidated, and your army will be so strong
they cannot hope to stand before it. I am also of the opinion that they
are well informed of your isolated position here; that one of your
brigades is two days' march in the rear, also that owing to the high
stage of water in Fishing Creek it will be impossible for General
Schoepf to reinforce you for a day or two. I also believe that the enemy
has a fair estimate of your exact strength."

During this speech of Fred's the general listened intently, and then
said: "You have a better idea of my actual position than I trust most of
my officers have, but you said some things which need explaining. On
what grounds do you base your belief that the enemy are so well
acquainted with my situation and strength?"

"No positive proof, General, but an intuition which I cannot explain.
But this impression is also based on more solid ground than intuition.
Yesterday, just before I met your advance, I met a man in our uniform.
When he saw me he jumped his horse over a fence and disappeared in a
wood. I am almost certain he was a spy. To-day I caught a glimpse of
that same man in the woods yonder on our right."

Thomas mused a moment, and then said: "If the Confederate general fully
knows our situation and strength, he is foolish if he does not attack
me. But if he does, I shall try and be ready for him."

The general then once more carefully examined his maps of the country,
gave orders that a very strong picket should be posted, and that well in
advance of the infantry pickets cavalry videttes should be placed, and
that the utmost vigilance should be exercised.

Then turning to Fred, he said: "If your expectations are realized in the
morning, you may act as one of my aids. And now, gentlemen," said he,
turning to his staff, "for some sleep; we must be astir early in the
morning."

In the gray light of the early morning, from away out in front, there
came the faint report of rifles. Nearer and more rapid grew the firing.
Early as it was, General Thomas and staff had had their breakfast, and
every soldier was prepared.

General Manson, in command of the advance regiments, came galloping back
to headquarters.

"General," he said, "we are attacked in force."

"Go back," replied General Thomas, without betraying any more excitement
than if he were ordering his men out on review, "form your men in the
most advantageous position, and hold the enemy until I can bring up the
rest of the troops."

In a trice aids were galloping in every direction. Fred found enough to
do. The fitful reports of guns in front had become a steady roll of
musketry. The loud mouth of the cannon joined in, and the heavy
reverberations rolled over field and through forest. In an incredibly
short time every regiment was in motion towards where the heavy smoke of
battle was already hanging over the field.

Of all the thousands, the general commanding seemed the most
unconcerned. He leisurely mounted his horse and trotted toward the
conflict. His eye swept the field, and as the regiments came up they
were placed just where they were needed. His manner inspired every one
who saw him with confidence.

To Fred the scene was inexpressibly grand. This, then, was a battle. The
wild cheering of men, the steady roll of musketry, the deep bass of
cannon, thrilled him with an excitement never felt before. The singing
of the balls made strange music in his ears. Now and then a shell or
solid shot would crash through the forest and shatter the trees as with
a thunderbolt. Soon a thin line of men came staggering back, some
holding up an arm streaming with blood, others hobbling along using
their guns as crutches. A few, wild with fear, had thrown away their
guns, and were rushing back, lost to shame, lost to honor, lost to
everything but an insane desire to get out of that hell of fire.

Fred was a born soldier. At first there was a lump in the throat, as if
the heart was trying to get away, a slight trembling of the limbs, a
momentary desire to get out of danger, and then he was as cool and
collected as if on parade. Through the storm of balls he rode,
delivering his orders with a smiling face, and a word of cheer. General
Thomas noticed the coolness of his aid, and congratulated him on his
soldierly qualities.

On the left, in front of the Fourth Kentucky Regiment, the battle was
being waged with obstinate fury. Colonel Fry, seeing Fred, rode up to
him, and said: "Tell General Thomas I must have reinforcements at once;
the enemy is flanking me."

Away went Fred to deliver the order.

"Say to Colonel Fry," said Thomas, "that I will at once forward the aid
required. Until the reinforcements come, tell him to hold his position
at all hazards."

The message was delivered. Fry compressed his lips, glanced along his
line, saw the point of greatest danger, and quickly ordered two of his
left companies to the right, leading them in person, Fred going with
him.

An officer enveloped in a large gray coat suddenly rode out of the wood,
and galloping up to them shouted: "For God's sake, stop firing! You are
firing on your own men."

Just then two other officers rode up to the one in a gray cloak. Seeing
Colonel Fry and Fred, they at once fired on them. Colonel Fry was
slightly wounded, but Fred was untouched. As quick as thought both
returned the fire. The officer at whom Fred fired reeled in his saddle,
then straightened up and galloped to the rear. Colonel Fry fired at the
officer in the gray cloak. He threw up his arms, and then plunged
headlong to the ground.

The bullet from Colonel Fry's pistol had pierced the heart of General
Zollicoffer.

The battle now raged along the entire line with great fury. The lowering
clouds grew darker, and the pitiless rain, cold and icy, fell on the
upturned faces of the dead. The cruel storm beat upon the wounded, and
they shivered and moaned as their life's blood ebbed away. The smoke
settled down over the field and hid the combatants from view, but
through the gloom the flashes of the guns shone like fitful tongues of
flame. Then the Federal line began to press forward, and soon the whole
Confederate army was in full retreat.

[Illustration: The Battle now raged along the entire line with great
fury.]

It was at this time that Fred's attention was attracted to a young
Confederate officer, who was trying to rally his men. Bravely did he
strive to stay the panic, but suddenly Fred saw him falter, sway to and
fro, and then fall. Once more did the Confederates try to rally under
the leadership of a young mounted officer, but they were swept aside,
and the battle was over.

Fred's first thought was for the young Confederate officer whom he saw
fall while trying to rally his men. There was something about him that
seemed familiar. Could it be Calhoun? Fred's heart stood still at the
thought. Fred soon found the object of his search. He was lying on his
side, his head resting on his left arm, his right hand still grasping
his sword, a smile on his face. As Fred looked on the placid face of the
dead, a groan burst from him, and the tears gushed from his eyes. With
his handkerchief he wiped away the grime of battle, and there, in all
his manly beauty, Bailie Peyton lay before him. Fred's thoughts flew
back to that day at Gallatin. No more would those eloquent lips hold
entranced a spellbound audience. No more would his fiery words stir the
hearts of his countrymen, even as the wind stirs the leaves of the
forest.

Tenderly did Fred have him carried back and laid by the side of his
fallen chieftain. Both were given the honor due them. As soon as
possible the remains of both were forwarded through the lines to
Nashville.

It was not the city that Fred saw in August. Then it was wild and
hilarious with joy, carried away with the pomp and glory of war.
Zollicoffer was the idol of the people of Tennessee; Bailie Peyton of
its young men. That both should fall in the same battle plunged
Nashville in deepest mourning.

When the bodies arrived, it was a city of tears. Flags floated at
half-mast; women walked the streets wringing their hands and weeping
bitter tears. Their idols lay dead. Poor Nashville! She was to drink
still deeper of the bitter cup of war.

CHAPTER XV.

A FIGHT WITH GUERRILLAS.

Back over the ten miles that they had marched through the darkness and
rain, the Confederate army fled in the wildest confusion. Swift in
pursuit came the victorious army of Thomas. Before night his cannon were
shelling the entrenchments at Beech Grove. There was no rest for the
hungry, weary, despondent Confederates. In the darkness of the night
they stole across the river, and then fled, a demoralized mob, leaving
everything but themselves in the hands of the victors.

The next morning an officer came to Fred and said one of the prisoners
would like to see him.

"One of the prisoners would like to see me," asked Fred, in surprise.
"What for?"

"I don't know," answered the officer. "But he is a plucky chap; it's the
young lieutenant who headed the last rally of the Rebs. He fought until
he was entirely deserted by his men and surrounded by us; he then tried
to cut his way out, but his horse was shot and he captured."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Fred. "It must be Calhoun," and he rushed to
where the prisoners were confined.

"Calhoun!"

"Fred!"

And the boys were in each other's arms.

"Cal, you don't know how glad I am to see you," exclaimed Fred.

"Bonds and all?" answered Calhoun, with a dash of his old spirits.

"No," said Fred; "like St. Paul, I will say 'except these bonds.' But
Calhoun, I must have a good long talk with you in private."

"Not much privacy here, Fred," said Calhoun, looking around at the crowd
that was staring at them.

Fred went to General Thomas and told him that his cousin was among the
prisoners, and asked permission to take him to his quarters. The
permission was readily given, and the boys had the day and night to
themselves.

How they did talk, and how much they had to tell each other! First Fred
had to tell Calhoun all about himself.

When he had finished Calhoun grasped his hand and exclaimed: "Fred, I am
proud of you, if you are fighting with the Yanks. How I would like to
ride by your side! But of all your adventures, the one with poor Robert
Ferror touches me deepest. Poor fellow! he should have lived. He must
have had a great deal of pure gold about him, notwithstanding his
cowardly crime."

"He did," sighed Fred, "he did; and yet I can never think of the
assassination of Captain Bascom without a shudder. On the other hand, I
can never think of Ferror's death without tears. As I think of him now,
I am of the opinion that the indignities heaped upon him had, in a
measure, unbalanced his mind, and that the killing of Bascom was the act
of an insane person. But, Cal, I hate to talk about it; that night of
horrors always gives me the shivers. So tell me all about yourself."

"There is not much to tell," answered Calhoun. "You know I left Danville
with your father for Bowling Green. Owing to the influence of my father,
I was commissioned a second lieutenant and given a place on the staff of
Governor Johnson. You know a provisional State government was organized
at Bowling Green, and G. M. Johnson appointed Governor. When General
Buckner tried to capture Louisville by surprise, and you objected by
throwing the train off the track, I was one of the victims of the
outrage. I recognized you, just as your father ordered the volley
fired."

"My father!" gasped Fred. "My father! did he order that volley fired at
me?"

"Yes; but he did not know it was you when he gave the order. When I
called out it was you, he nearly fainted, and would have fallen if one
of his officers had not caught him. He wanted to resign then and there,
but General Buckner would not hear of it. Really, Fred, I think he would
have ordered that volley even if he had known you; but if you had been
killed, he would have killed himself afterward."

"Poor father!" sighed Fred. "He loves me even if he has disowned me."

"Well," continued Calhoun, "to make a long story short, I became
prodigiously jealous of you. You were covering yourself with glory while
I was sitting around doing nothing. It was awful dull at Bowling Green.
As Zollicoffer appeared to be the only one of the Confederate generals
who was at all active, I asked and received permission to join him,
where I was given a roving commission as a scout. If I do say it, I made
it rather lively for you fellows. At length I hit upon a nice little
plan of capturing your pickets, and was quite successful until you found
it out and put an end to my fun."

"Calhoun," exclaimed Fred, in surprise, "was it you with whom I had that
night fight?"

"It was, and you came near making an end of your hopeful cousin, I can
tell you. Out of seven men, I had two killed and four wounded. Only one
man and myself escaped unhurt, and I had three bullet holes through my
clothes. That put an end to my raids upon your pickets, and I confined
myself to scouting once more. Then came that unlucky fight with you in
the woods. Fred, I must congratulate you on the way you managed that.
Your retreat showed me your exact strength, and I thought I could wipe
you off the face of the earth. Your sudden wheel and charge took us
completely by surprise, and disconcerted my men. That shot which cut my
bridle rein took me out of the fight, and perhaps it was just as well
for me that it did. When I came to and found out what had been done, I
at once knew you must have been in command of the squad, and if I could
I would have hugged you for your generosity."

"Cal," replied Fred, his voice trembling with emotion, "you can hardly
realize my feelings when I saw you lying pale and senseless there before
me; it took all the fight out of me."

"I know, I know," answered Calhoun, laying his hand caressingly on
Fred's shoulder. "I was badly shaken up by that fall, but not seriously
hurt. Now, comes the most dangerous of my adventures. When I met you in
the road, I----"

"Stop!" broke in Fred, "not another word. Of course you were on one of
your scouting expeditions."

A curious look came over Calhoun's face, and then he said, in a low
voice: "You are right, Fred; I was on one of my scouting expeditions,"
and he shuddered slightly.

"Fred," suddenly asked Calhoun, "is there any possible way for me to
keep from going to prison?"

"Sometimes prisoners give their parole," answered Fred. "I will see what
can be done."

The next morning General Thomas sent for Fred, and said that he was
about to send some dispatches to General Buell at Louisville. "And,"
continued he, "owing to your splendid conduct and the value of the
services you have rendered, I have selected you as the messenger. Then,
in all probability, it will be very quiet in my front for some time,
and General Nelson may have more active work for you. You know," he
concluded with a smile, "I only have the loan of you."

Fred heartily thanked the general for the honor bestowed, and then said:
"General, I have a great boon to ask."

"What is it?" asked the general, kindly. "If possible I will grant it."

"You know my cousin is here a prisoner. He is more like a brother than a
cousin--the only brother I ever knew. The boon I ask is that you grant
him a parole."

"Bring him here," said the general.

Calhoun was sent for, and soon stood in the presence of the general.

"An officer, I see," said the general, as he glanced Calhoun over.

"Yes, sir; Lieutenant Calhoun Pennington of Governor Johnson's staff,"
answered Calhoun, with dignity.

"What were you doing up here if you are one of Johnson's staff?" asked
the general.

"I was here on special duty."

"Lieutenant, your cousin has asked as a special favor that you be
granted a parole. He says that you reside in Danville, and as he is
going to Louisville, he would like to have you accompany him as far as
your home."

"General," answered Calhoun, "you would place me under a thousand
obligations if you would grant me a parole; but only on one condition,
and that is that you effect my exchange as quickly as possible."

The general smiled. "I see," said he, "that you and Shackelford are
alike; never satisfied unless you are in the thickest of the fray. I
think I can satisfy you."

The parole was made out, and Fred and Calhoun made preparations to start
for Danville. Never did two boys enjoy a ride more than they did.

In spite of bad roads and bad weather, the exuberance of their spirits
knew no bounds. They were playmates again, without a word of difference
between them. As far as they were concerned, the clouds of war had
lifted, and they basked in the sunlight of peace.

"I say, Fred," remarked Calhoun, "this is something like it; seems like
old times. Why did this war have to come and separate us?"

Fred sighed. "The war, Calhoun," he answered, "has laid a heavier hand
on me than on you, for it has made me an outcast from home."

"Don't worry, Fred; it will come out all right," answered Calhoun,
cheerily.

On the morning of the second day the boys met with an adventure for
which they were not looking. Even as early in the war as this, those
roving bands of guerrillas which afterward proved such a curse to the
border States began to appear. It was somewhat of a surprise to the boys
when four men suddenly rode out of the woods by the side of the road,
and roughly demanded that they give an account of themselves.

"By whose authority do you stop us?" indignantly demanded Fred.

"By my authority," answered the leader, with a fearful oath.

"And your authority I refuse to acknowledge," was the hot answer.

"See here, young man, you had better keep a civil tongue in your head,"
and as the leader said this he significantly tapped the butt of his
revolver.

Calhoun here interposed. "What is it you wish?" he asked.

"I wish to know who you are, and where you are going, and that ----
quick."

"That is easily answered," replied Calhoun. "As you see by my uniform, I
am a Confederate officer. I am on parole, and am on my way to my home in
Danville, there to wait until I am regularly exchanged."

"A fine story," said the leader. "And I suppose your companion is also
in the Confederate service."

"Not at all," replied Fred, quietly. "I am in the service of the United
States."

"You are, are you?" sneered the man. "I think both of you are
Lincolnites. We will have to search you, and I think in the end shoot
you both."

"Here is my parole," said Calhoun, his face growing red with anger.

The man took it, glanced it over, and then coolly tore it in two, and
flung it down.

"Any one can carry such a paper as that. Now, climb down in a hurry. We
want them horses, and we want you. Boys, it will be fun to try our
marksmanship on these youngsters, won't it?" and he turned to his
companions with a brutal laugh.

But the guerrillas made a great mistake; they thought they were only
dealing with two boys, and were consequently careless and off their
guard.

With a sharp, quick look at Calhoun which meant volumes, Fred quickly
drew his revolver. There was a flash, a report, and the leader of the
guerrillas dropped from his horse. With a startled oath, the others drew
their revolvers, but before they could raise them there were two reports
so close together as almost to sound as one, and two more of the gang
rolled from their horses. The remaining one threw up his hands and began
to beg for mercy.

[Illustration: Fred drew his Revolver, and the Guerrilla dropped from
his horse.]

"You miscreant you," exclaimed Calhoun, covering him with his revolver.
"I ought to send a ball through your cowardly carcass, to be even with
my cousin here; for he got two of you, while I only got one."

"Oh, mercy! mercy!" begged the trembling wretch. "I have a wife and
children."

"You have; then so much the worse for the wife and children."

"I am not fit to die," he blubbered.

"That is plain to be seen," answered Calhoun. "Now off that horse!"

The fellow obeyed with alacrity.

"Now hand me your weapons--butts first, remember."

The pistols were handed over.

"Now pick up that parole your leader tore and threw down, and hand it to
me."

This was done.

Calhoun sat eyeing him a moment, and then continued: "I ought to shoot
you without mercy, but I believe in giving a dog a chance for his life,
and so I will give you a chance. You mount your horse, and when I say
'Go,' you go. After I say 'Go' I shall count five, and then shoot. If I
miss you, which I don't think I shall, I shall continue shooting as long
as you are in range; so the faster you go, the better for you. Now,
mount."

The man looked appealingly at Calhoun, but seeing no mercy, mounted his
horse as quick as his trembling limbs would let him. His face was white
with fear, and his teeth fairly rattled they chattered so.

Calhoun reined his horse around so he was by the fellow's side. Then he
shouted "Go!"

The man gave a yell of terror, bent low over his horse's neck and was
off like a shot. Calhoun with a chuckle fired over him, and the fellow
seemed to fairly flatten out. Four times did Calhoun fire, and at each
report the flying horseman appeared to go the faster.

As for Fred, he was convulsed with merriment, notwithstanding the
grewsome surroundings.

"Leave these carrion where they are," said Calhoun in response to a
question from Fred as to what disposition they should make of the dead.
"That live companion of theirs will be back when we are gone."

They rode along in silence for a while, and then Calhoun suddenly said:
"Fred, how I wish I could always fight by your side. It's a pity we have
to fight on different sides."

"Just what I was thinking of, Cal," answered Fred; "but we have the
satisfaction of knowing we have fought one battle together."

"And won it, too," shouted Calhoun.

They reached Danville in due time and without further adventure. To say
that Judge Pennington was surprised to see them riding up together would
be to express it mildly; he was astounded. Then he had his arms around
his boy, and was sobbing, "My son! my son!"

"And Fred, too," said the judge, at last turning from welcoming his son.
"I am truly glad to see you, my boy. But how in the world did you two
happen to come together?"

And so the whole story had to be told, and the judge listened and
wondered and mourned over the defeat of the Confederates at Mill
Springs.

"My boy," said the judge, with tears glistening in his eyes, "at least I
am glad to know that you did your duty."

"Aye! he did that, uncle," exclaimed Fred. "If all the Confederates had
been like Calhoun, we might not have won the victory."

"Unless all the Federals had been like you," responded Calhoun
gallantly.

The judge would have both boys tell him the full particulars of their
adventures, and listened to their recital with all the pleasure of a
schoolboy. But when they were through, he shook his head sadly, and
said: "Boys, you can't keep that pace up. You will both be killed. But I
am proud of you, proud of you both, if Fred is fighting for that
horrible Lincoln."

It was a happy day Fred spent at his uncle's. It seemed like old times.
If bitterness was felt towards him it was not shown.

When it was noised about that both Calhoun and Fred had returned, they
were besieged with callers. The story of the battle of Mill Springs had
to be told again and again. Colonel Fry was one of the influential
citizens of the city, and especially were they eager to hear the
particulars of his killing General Zollicoffer.

Fred concluded to ride his horse to Louisville, instead of riding to
Nicholasville or Lebanon and taking the cars from one of those places.

"I must have Prince wherever I go after this," he said.

"Hello! my boy, is that you?" asked General Nelson, as Fred rode up to
his headquarters after a very prosaic journey of three days.

"It is no one else, General," laughed Fred, as he dismounted. "Here I
am, here is my good horse, Prince, and here is a letter to you from
General Thomas."

Nelson took the letter, read it, and looking up smiling, said: "I see
you still keep up your habit of doing something unusual. Thomas speaks
in the highest terms of your work. Then you were at Mill Springs?"

"Yes, General."

"Glorious victory! glorious victory! the first real victory we have
gained. Did you bring full dispatches with you?"

"Yes, General; I have voluminous dispatches for General Buell. I was so
eager to see you I stopped before delivering them."

"Ah, my boy, I believe you do think something of bluff old Nelson after
all, even if he has a devil of a temper," and the general kindly patted
the boy on the head.

Fred's eyes filled with tears. "You know, General," he said, brokenly,
"that you took me in, when my father cast me out."

"For the good of the country, my boy, for the good of the country," said
the general brusquely. "But, come, Fred, I will ride over to General
Buell's headquarters with you. I would like to see General Thomas' full
report of the battle."

They found General Buell in the highest of spirits, and Fred was given a
warm welcome. He looked over General Thomas' report, and his whole face
beamed with satisfaction. He asked Fred a multitude of questions, and
was surprised at the knowledge of military affairs which he showed in
his answers.

"I think, General," said General Buell, turning to Nelson, after he had
dismissed Fred, "that you have not overestimated the abilities of your
protégé. In a private note General Thomas speaks in the highest terms of
him. I shall do what you asked."

"Thank you, General," said Nelson. "Somehow I have taken wonderfully to
the boy."

What it was General Buell was to do for Fred, that individual was in
ignorance.

While in Louisville many of Fred's leisure moments were spent at the
hospitable home of the Vaughns. Mabel's betrothed was now at the front,
and it was astonishing how much note paper that young lady used in
writing to him.

"You don't write that often to your brother," said Fred, smiling.

"My brother?" asked Mabel, looking up in surprise.

"Yes, your humble servant; didn't you adopt me as a brother?"

Mabel burst out laughing. "Oh!" she replied, "one doesn't have to write
so often to a brother. Lovers are like babies; they have to be petted.
But to change the subject, where does my knight-errant expect to go for
his next adventure?"

"I don't know," answered Fred. "Things appear to be rather quiet just
now."

But events were even then transpiring that were to take Fred to a
different theater of action.

CHAPTER XVI.

FORT DONELSON.

Commodore Foote and General U. S. Grant sat conversing in the
headquarters of the latter at Cairo, Illinois. The general was puffing a
cigar, and answered in monosyllables between puffs.

"You have heard nothing yet, have you, General," the commodore was
asking, "of that request we united in sending to General Halleck?"

"Nothing," answered Grant, moodily.

There was silence for some time, the general apparently in deep thought.
The commodore broke the silence by asking:

"You went to see him personally once on this matter, did you not?"

"He ungraciously gave me permission to visit St. Louis in order to see
him, after I had begged for the privilege at least half a dozen times,"
Grant answered.

"And you laid the matter before him in all its bearings?"

"I tried to."

"What did he say?"

"Say! he struck me."

"Struck you?" asked the commodore, starting in surprise.

Grant smiled. "I mean," said he, "that he struck me metaphorically. I
don't believe he would have hurt me as badly, if he had really struck
me. I was never so cut in all my life. I came away feeling that I had
committed an unpardonable sin from a military standpoint."

"Then he would not hear to the proposition at all?"

"Hear it! He would not listen to me. I came away resolving never to ask
another favor of him. Yet so anxious am I to make this campaign that, as
you know, I swallowed my pride and united with you in making the request
that we be allowed to make the movement."

"It is strange," replied the commodore, "that he should ignore both our
requests, not favoring us even with a reply. Yet it seems that he must
see that Fort Henry should be reduced at once. If we delay, both the
Cumberland and the Tennessee will be so strongly fortified that it will
be almost impossible to force a passage. Everything is to be gained by
moving at once. Everything may be lost by delay."

"Even a civilian ought to see that," replied Grant, as he slowly blew a
cloud of smoke from his mouth, and watched it as it lazily curled
upward.

"The truth of it is," Grant continued slowly, as if weighing every word,
"too many of us are afraid that another general may win more honor than
we. Then there are altogether too many separate commands. Now, here are
Buell and myself; each with a separate command, yet both working for the
same object. I should either be subject to the command of Buell, or he
should be subject to my orders. We are now like two men trying to lift
the same burden, and instead of lifting together, one will lift and then
the other. Such a system can but prolong the war indefinitely."

"General," said the commodore, earnestly, "I sincerely wish you had the
supreme command here in the West. I believe we would see different
results, and that very soon."

Grant blushed like a schoolgirl, fidgeted in his seat, and then said:
"Commodore, you do me altogether too much honor. But this I will say, if
I had supreme command I should not sit still and see the Tennessee and
Cumberland rivers fortified without raising a hand to prevent it.
Neither do I believe in letting month after month go by for the purpose
of drilling and organizing. The Government seems to forget that time
gives the enemy the same privilege. What is wanted is hard blows, and
these blows should be delivered as soon as possible. Sherman was right
when he asked for 200,000 men to march to the Gulf, yet he was sneered
at by the War Department, hounded by every paper in the land, called
insane, and now he is occupying a subordinate position. The war could be
ended in a year. No one now can tell how long it will last."

Just then a telegram was placed in Grant's hands. He read it, and his
whole face lighted up with pleasure.

"You look pleased," said the commodore. "The telegram must bring good
news."

Without a word Grant placed the telegram in the hands of the commodore.
It was an order from General Halleck to move up the Tennessee as soon as
possible and capture Fort Henry.

"At last," said the commodore, his face showing as much pleasure as did
Grant's.

"At last," responded Grant; and then, quickly, "Commodore, we may have
done an injustice to General Halleck. There may be good reasons we know
not of why this order should not have been made before. Commodore, be
ready to move with your fleet to-morrow."

"That soon?" asked the commodore.

"That soon," responded Grant.

"General, I shall be ready; and now good-bye, for both of us have much
before us. But before I go, let me congratulate you. I believe that
success and great honor await you," and with these words the commodore
withdrew.

The next day, with 15,000 men, General Grant was steaming up the
Tennessee.

General Buell sat in his headquarters at Louisville. General Nelson,
accompanied by Fred, had dropped in to see his general, and at the same
time to give vent to some of his pent-up feelings.

"It's a shame, a shame!" he fumed, "for us to sit here and let the
Rebels fortify Bowling Green and Dover and Columbus, and build forts to
blockade the Tennessee, and we not raise a finger to prevent it."

Buell smiled at his irate general, and asked: "And what would you do,
Nelson?"

"Do!" roared Nelson, "do! I would strike, and strike hard. I would give
them precious little time to build forts."

Before General Buell could answer, an orderly entered with a telegram.
He read it, and turning to Nelson, said:

"Well, General, you can cease your fuming. This telegram is from General
Halleck. He tells me he has ordered General Grant up the Tennessee to
reduce Fort Henry, and he wants me to co-operate as much as possible in
the movement."

Nelson was on his feet in an instant.

"General," he exclaimed, "I have a favor, a great favor to ask of you."

Buell smilingly answered: "I think I know what it is without your
asking. You want me to send your division."

Nelson bowed.

"I do not see how I can spare so many men; you know we have Johnston at
Bowling Green to look after."

"But General," answered Nelson, "the Tennessee and Cumberland must be
defended. In all probability the most of Johnston's army will be
transferred there."

"In that case, General," answered Buell, "I will remember you. Your
division shall be the first one sent."

"Thank you, General, thank you," replied Nelson. "I only wish I knew I
was going."

"As it is now," continued Buell, "I shall order General Crittenden to
send Cruft's brigade. That brigade is near the mouth of Green river.
There is no force of the enemy, in any number, before them, and the
brigade can well be spared. I shall send no more men unless it is
absolutely necessary. I shall at once dispatch an officer to General
Crittenden with necessary orders."

"General," now spoke up Fred, "like General Nelson, I have a request to
make, and by your kindness I hope to meet with better success."

"Ah!" said Buell, "you wish to carry the orders. If Nelson has no
objection, I think I can grant that request. The general has told me
something of your history, Mr. Shackelford. General Thomas also speaks
in the highest terms of you."

"You can go if you wish, Fred," answered Nelson. "I only hope I shall
soon be with you."

So it was settled, and before night Fred and his good horse Prince were
on their way down the Ohio. Fred not only carried dispatches to General
Crittenden, but he had personal letters both from General Buell and
General Nelson to General Cruft commending him to the latter officer.

Disembarking at Owensboro, Fred made a swift ride to Calhoun, the
headquarters of General Crittenden. He delivered his dispatches to the
general, and at once sought the headquarters of General Cruft. The
general read Fred's letters, and then said: "You are very welcome, Mr.
Shackelford; you may consider yourself as one of my staff until such
time as General Nelson may join us."

Soon orders came to General Cruft to at once prepare to join Grant.

It was nearly noon on February the 14th when the fleet on which General
Cruft's brigade had embarked arrived at Fort Donelson. The place had
already been invested two days, and some severe fighting had taken
place. The weather, from being warm and rainy, had suddenly turned cold
on the afternoon of the 13th, and Fred shivered as he emerged from the
comfortable cabin of the steamboat and stepped out on the cold, desolate
bank of the river. The ground was covered with ice and snow, and the
scene was dreary in the extreme.

Now and then the heavy reverberation of a cannon came rolling down the
river, and echoed and re-echoed among the hills. A fleet of gunboats lay
anchored in the river, the mouths of their great guns looking out over
the dark sullen water as though watching for their prey. General Cruft's
brigade was assigned to the division of General Lew Wallace, which
occupied the center of the Federal army. Back in the rear little groups
of soldiers stood shivering around small fires, trying to warm their
benumbed limbs, or to cook their scanty rations.

The condition of the soldiers was pitiable in the extreme. There were
no tents; but few had overcoats, and many on the hard, muddy march from
Fort Henry had even thrown away their blankets. In the front lines no
fires could be lighted, and there the soldiers stood, exposed to the
furious storm of sleet and snow, hungry, benumbed, hardly knowing
whether they were dead or alive. Such were the heroes who stood for
three days before Donelson.

As Fred looked on all this suffering, he wondered at the fortitude with
which it was endured. There were few complaints from the soldiers; they
were even cheerful and eager to meet the foe.

About three o'clock the gunboats came steaming up the river and engaged
the Confederate batteries.

It was a most sublime spectacle, and held Fred spellbound. The very
heavens seemed splitting, and the earth shook and trembled from the
heavy concussions. Nearer and nearer the gunboats came to the batteries
until it seemed to Fred the great guns were vomiting fire and smoke into
each other's throats.

During the fight Fred noticed a small, thickset man sitting on his horse
intently watching the fight. His countenance was perfectly impassive,
and one could not tell by watching him whether he sympathized with
friend or foe.

For two hours the conflict raged. The boilers of the Essex had been
blown up, the other boats were bruised and battered and torn by the
great shots which had struck them, and were helplessly drifting down
the stream. The gunboats had been defeated. From the Federal side there
went up a great groan of disappointment, while from the Confederate
lines there arose the wild cheers of victory.

The silent man on horseback turned and rode away. Not a sign, not a word
that he was disappointed.

"Who is that man?" asked Fred of an officer standing by him.

"That, young man," was the answer, "is General Grant. He must be awfully
cut up, but he does not show it."

Fred turned and looked after Grant as he rode slowly away. "There,"
thought Fred, "is a man who is going to make his mark in this war. In
some of his actions he reminds me of General Thomas. Nothing seems to
excite him."

Night and darkness came. On the frozen ground, without tents or fire,
the soldiers once more made their beds. The wind sighed and moaned
through the bare branches, as if weeping at the suffering it caused.
Many, to keep from freezing, never lay down, but kept up a weary march,
so that the blood might circulate. The long hours dragged slowly along.

Over in the Confederate lines all was activity. A council of war was
held, and it was resolved that in the morning they would cut their way
through the lines of steel which Grant had thrown around them. All
preparations were made, every order given, and then they waited for the
light of morning--the last morning that hundreds would ever see.

It was hardly light when Fred was awakened by the fitful sound of
musketry over on the right. In front of Wallace's division only the
report of a rifle of a picket was heard now and then. Hurriedly eating a
little breakfast, he mounted his horse and reported to General Cruft for
duty. The men were all standing at arms, but there was nothing for them
to do. But over on the right the rattle of musketry grew more intense,
the roll of heavy volleys began to be heard, and then the deep-voiced
cannon joined in the chorus. Louder and louder grew the din of the
conflict. The smoke of battle began to ascend above the treetops like
smoke from a burning coal-pit. The sound of battle came nearer, the roll
of musketry was incessant, the thunder of cannon never ceased.

An officer wild with excitement came spurring his foaming horse up to
General Wallace.

"General McClernand wants help," he gasped. "The whole Rebel army has
attacked his division."

"I have orders from General Grant to hold this position at all hazards,"
replied Wallace. "I must have orders from him."

To Grant's headquarters the officer rides in frantic haste. The general
was away; he had started at five o'clock to see Commodore Foote, who had
been wounded in the battle of the night before, and was on board of one
of his gunboats, and the boats lay some five or six miles below.

Would not some one of his staff give orders to send reinforcements to
McClernand. No; none would take the responsibility. The officer groaned,
and rode back to McClernand with the heavy tidings.

Minutes go by, the thunder of battle is terrific. The Federals are being
driven. The exultant cheering of the advancing foe is heard above the
roar of conflict.

Another officer, with his horse bleeding from wounds, his hat gone, and
tears streaming down his face, rides to General Wallace. "For God's
sake, help!" he gasps, "or everything is lost; we are flanked, we cannot
hold out longer."

Then General Wallace said: "I will take the responsibility; help you
shall have." And with his face lighted up with joy the officer dashed
back to tell McClernand that help was coming.

An order comes to General Cruft to at once march his brigade to the
scene of action. No sooner is the command given than the brigade is on
the way. Soon shot and shell are crashing overhead, and singing bullets
begin to cut the twigs of the bushes around. Now and then a soldier
falters and goes down. A smooth-faced, florid man rides up to General
Cruft. "I am Colonel Oglesby," he says; "my brigade is being flanked on
the right. Let me lead you in position; my men are nearly out of
ammunition." And then as calmly as if on parade Colonel Dick Oglesby
leads Cruft's brigade to the relief of his men. Soon the brigade is in
the midst of the conflict. Here and there Fred rides carrying orders.
The excitement of battle is on him, and he feels no fear.

Oglesby's brigade is out of ammunition. Sullenly his men fall back,
leaving over 800 of their number dead and wounded on the field, but his
left regiment refuses to go. The colonel, a large, dark man, with hair
as black as midnight, eyes like flaming stars, rages up and down the
line like a lion. Fred gazes on him in admiration. He is typical of war
incarnate.

"Who is he?" Fred asks of a wounded soldier hobbling back.

"Colonel John A. Logan," is the answer.

At last his men are out of ammunition, and Logan, bleeding from two
wounds, is obliged to lead his regiment back. Another regiment takes its
place, and after a dreadful conflict, is compelled to fall back, leaving
over 300 of their number dead and wounded.

Cruft's brigade was now on the extreme right, cut off from the rest of
the army. The enemy pressed upon them; a withering volley sent them
reeling back. "Charge!" was the order. Fred spurred forward, and seizing
the colors of a Kentucky regiment, shouted: "Now, boys, for the honor of
old Kentucky."

The enemy flew before them like frightened sheep. But on either flank
the enemy pressed, and the brigade, combating every foot, was forced
back.

The enemy had gained the desired end; McClernand's division was out of
the way, the road to retreat was open. Why was it not taken advantage
of? Because of the imbecility of Generals Floyd and Pillow.

Broken, and with a third of its number dead and wounded, McClernand's
division is driven back on Lew Wallace. Officers, stunned with the
disaster, come wildly galloping through Wallace's lines, shouting, "All
is lost! all is lost!"

Wallace changes front to meet the exultant, advancing foe. Firm as
adamant his lines stand. In the faces of the charging Confederates his
men pour their crushing volleys. The enemy waver, reel, then go
staggering, bleeding back.

Where is Grant all of this time? In conference with Commodore Foote on
board of a gunboat six miles down the river. He is too far away to hear
the roll of musketry, and the thunder of artillery he thinks but
cannonading between the two lines. It is past noon when the conference
is ended and he is rowed ashore. There stands a staff officer with
bloodless face and shaking limbs. In a few words the story of the
disaster is told. Without a word Grant listens, and then mounts his
horse. The iron shoes of his steed strike fire on the frozen ground as
he gallops back. He arrives just as the foe is repulsed by Wallace's
division. His eye sweeps the field.

"Why, boys," he cries, "they are trying to get away; we mustn't let
them."

[Illustration: "Why, boys, they are trying to get away; we mustn't let
them."]

The words act like magic as they are borne along the lines. Cartridge
boxes are replenished, and the soldiers, who a few moments before were
in retreat, are now eager to advance. The lines are re-formed and the
army sweeps forward. This time it is the Confederates who are pressed
back, and soon the open road is closed. The chance to escape is forever
gone; Fort Donelson is doomed.

Darkness once more came, and with it another night of cold and
suffering. The early morning light showed a white flag floating from the
ramparts of the fort. Donelson had surrendered. Cold and hunger were
forgotten, as the soldiers in their joy embraced each other, and their
shouts of victory rose and fell like the swells of the ocean. The first
great victory of the war had been won.

Fifteen thousand Confederates were prisoners.

CHAPTER XVII.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

The sun arose once more on Donelson. The storm of the elements, as well
as of battle, had passed away. But the horrors of war remained. On the
frozen ground lay the dead with white, pinched faces. Scores of the
wounded had perished from cold and exposure. Some who still breathed
were frozen to the ground in their own blood. The cold had been more
cruel than the bullets.

Fred rode over the battlefield seeking the body of an officer in one of
the Kentucky regiments whom he had seen fall. The officer was a friend
of his father's. Where the last fierce struggle took place before the
brigade fell back, Fred found him. He was half-reclining against a tree,
and from its branches the snow had sifted down, as though trying to blot
out the crimson with a mantle of white. The officer had not died at
once, for the frozen hand held a photograph in its iron grasp--that of a
happy, sweet-faced mother holding a cooing babe. It was the photograph
of his wife and child.

With a sob Fred turned away, sick--sick at heart. He was choking with
the horror that he saw.

Fred's gallant act in leading the charge had been noticed by General
Cruft, and at the first opportunity he highly complimented his youthful
aid. But to Fred it now all seemed like a dream--something not real.
Could it be that only yesterday he was in that hell of fire, eager only
to kill and maim! He sickened at the thought.

In the afternoon he went to see the prisoners mustered. As they marched
along with downcast eyes, Fred saw a well-known form among the officers
which sent every particle of blood from his face. Quickly recovering
himself, he sprang forward, exclaiming, "Uncle Charles!"

Major Shackelford looked up in surprise, a frown came over his face, but
he held out his hand, and said, "Fred, you here?"

"Is--is father--a--prisoner--or--killed?" Fred's voice trembled, then
broke; he could not articulate another word.

"Your father is not here, thank God!" replied his uncle. "He is with
Johnston at Bowling Green."

"Thank God!" echoed Fred.

He now noticed for the first time a young lieutenant, his neat uniform
soiled and torn, and his eyes red with watching.

"Why, Cousin George, you here, too?" exclaimed Fred, holding out his
hand.

The young lieutenant drew back haughtily.

"I refuse," said he, "to take the hand of a traitor to his State and
kindred."

The hot blood flew to Fred's face, and he was on the point of making an
angry retort, but controlling himself, he replied, "As you please," and
turned away.

"Uncle Charles," he said, "I know you will not be so foolish. I am
sorry--so sorry--to see you here. Can I do anything for you?"

The major groaned. "No, Fred, no. I am heartbroken. Oh! the disgrace of
it! the disgrace of it!"

"Of what, uncle?"

"Of the surrender."

"You surely fought like heroes," gently replied Fred. "There is no
disgrace in brave men bowing to the inevitable."

"And that fight was the worst of it," bitterly replied the major. "Every
noble life lost was a useless sacrifice, sacrificed to the imbecility of
our generals. But, Fred, this surrender means more; it means the giving
up of Nashville. Oh, my family! my family! What will become of them?
They will be wild with fear; they will flee penniless--flee I know not
where."

Fred remained in deep thought for a moment, then looking up, said:
"Uncle, do you really fear for Aunt Jennie and the children?"

"I do. Nashville will be wild--terror-stricken; there is no knowing what
will happen."

"Uncle, if you wish, I will go to Nashville. Even if the city is taken,
there will be no danger. Your property will be safe if not deserted. As
you say, the greatest danger is in flight."

"Can you reach Nashville, Fred?"

"I think I can."

"Then go, and God bless you. I will write a letter to Jennie."

"Also write a statement for me," said Fred, "saying I am your nephew,
and that I am trying to reach your family in Nashville. It may be useful
to me."

A little later the letters were placed in Fred's hands, and bidding his
uncle a most affectionate farewell, he went to make preparations for his
journey. The next morning, provided with an order from General Grant
giving him permission to pass outside of the lines, he started. When he
was well beyond the pickets, he tore up his pass, thus destroying any
evidence that he was ever connected with the Federal army.

He had not ridden many miles before he began to overtake straggling
Confederate soldiers who had escaped from Donelson. Along in the
afternoon he suddenly came upon three cavalrymen. The horse of one had
given out, and the three were debating what was best to do. Seeing Fred,
and noticing that he was well mounted, one of them said: "There comes a
boy, a civilian, on a fine hoss. Why not confiscate him for the good of
the cause?"

"Just the thing!" exclaimed the other two. Without warning, Fred found
himself covered by three revolvers.

"Come, young man," said one of the soldiers, threateningly, "off of
that hoss, and be quick about it, too."

"What does this mean?" said Fred, trying to keep cool.

"It means the Confederate States of America have use for that hoss; so
climb down quick, and none of your lip."

"But, gentlemen----"

"No buts about it," broke in the soldier fiercely. "Do you mean to say
you refuse to contribute a hoss to the cause? You ought to be in the
ranks yourself instead of whining about a hoss. You must be a Lincolnite
or a coward. Get off, or I will let daylight through your carcass."

There was no use parleying; so without saying a word Fred dismounted.
The soldier in great glee, congratulating himself on his good fortune,
mounted. Prince laid back his ears, and a wicked gleam came into his
eyes, but as Fred said nothing, the horse made no objection.

"Say, boy," exclaimed the soldier, "you can have my hoss there; it's a
fair trade, you see," and with a laugh and a jeer they rode away.

Fred let them go a short distance, when he suddenly gave a peculiar
short whistle. Prince gave a great bound, then wheeled as quick as
lightning. His rider was thrown with prodigious force, and lay senseless
in the road. At full speed the horse ran back and stopped by the side of
his owner, quivering with excitement. Fred vaulted into the saddle, and
with a yell of defiance dashed back in the direction he had come.
Coming to a cross road, he followed it until he came to a road leading
in the direction he wished to go.

"Hi! Prince, old fellow, that was a trick those fellows weren't on to,"
said Fred, patting the glossy neck of his horse. "You did it capitally,
my boy, capitally."

Prince turned his head and whinnied as if he knew all about it.

Towards evening Fred fell in with some of Forest's troopers who had
escaped from Donelson and were making their way to Nashville.

The officer in command asked Fred who he was and where he was going, and
was frankly told.

"I know Major Shackelford well," replied the officer, "an honorable man
and a gallant soldier. I shall be happy to have you accompany us to
Nashville."

Fred preferred to make more haste, but remembering his adventure,
resolved to run no more risk, and so gladly accepted the invitation.

The news of the surrender of Fort Donelson had become known, and the
whole country was wild with terror. Consternation was depicted in every
countenance. For the first time the people of the South began to realize
that after all they might be defeated.

When Fred entered Nashville the scene was indescribable. The whole city
was terror-stricken. Women walked the streets wringing their hands in
the agony of despair. Every avenue was blocked with vehicles of all
kinds, loaded with valuables and household goods. The inhabitants were
fleeing from what they considered destruction. Sobs and groans and
piteous wails were heard on every side. Could this be the same people he
had seen a few months before? Through the wild confusion, Fred rode
until he reached the door of his uncle's house. He found the family
preparing for hasty flight.

"Aunt Jennie, how are you?" exclaimed he, holding out his hand.

Mrs. Shackelford gave a shriek, and then exclaimed: "Fred Shackelford!
where did you come from?"

"From Donelson and Uncle Charles," replied Fred.

Mrs. Shackelford turned as white as death, tottered, and would have
fallen if Fred had not caught her.

"Is--is--Charles killed?" she gasped.

"Calm yourself, Aunt Jennie; both Uncle Charles and George are well."

"Why--why did you come then? What has happened?"

"They are prisoners."

"Prisoners!" wailed Mrs. Shackelford, and tears came to the relief of
her pent-up feelings. "Oh! they will die in some Northern prison, and I
shall never see them again."

"Cheer up, Aunt Jennie. In all probability they will be exchanged in a
few weeks or released on parole. Here is a letter from Uncle Charles.
It will do you good to read it," and he handed her the letter her
husband had written.

When she had read it, she became calmer, and said, "He wishes me to stay
here."

"By all means, Aunt Jennie," replied Fred. "Stop these preparations for
flight; be discreet, and you will be as safe in Nashville with the
Northern soldiers here as if they were a thousand miles away."

Just then Kate came in, her vivacity all gone, and her eyes red with
weeping.

"Why Fred, you here?" she asked in surprise and with some hauteur. "I
thought you had turned Yankee. When I heard of it I vowed I would never
speak to you again."

"But you see you have," replied Fred, smiling.

"Are you sure the Yankees are coming?" she asked, ignoring Fred's
remark.

"Perfectly sure."

"Oh! oh! oh! what will we do?"

"Drive them back with broomsticks," replied Fred, mischievously.

"What!" asked Kate, opening her eyes in astonishment.

"My pretty cousin, didn't you tell me when I was here that if the
Yankees ever dare come near Nashville the women would turn out and beat
them back with broomsticks?"

"You horrid thing!" exclaimed Kate. "I will never speak to you again; so
there!" and she turned her back on him.

But when Kate learned that Fred had just come from her father and
brother she was eager enough to talk, and Fred had to tell the story of
Donelson over and over again. As they were talking, the clatter of
horse's hoofs attracted the attention of the family, and Fred, glancing
out of the window, saw his father dismounting before the door. The sight
completely unnerved him. He arose trembling in every limb, and gasped:

"Aunt Jennie, my father! I cannot meet him; he has forbidden it," and he
passed into another room.

Colonel Shackelford entered, and was warmly greeted by his
sister-in-law. He had but a moment to stay, as his regiment was on the
retreat, and the Federals were reported in close pursuit.

"I see," said he, "you have prepared for flight. I trust that you will
accompany my command until you reach a place of safety."

"We were going," replied Mrs. Shackelford, "but have changed our minds.
I have just received a letter from Charles, who is a prisoner, and he
has advised me to stay."

"Charles a prisoner, and a letter from him! How did you receive it?"
Colonel Shackelford asked in surprise.

Mrs. Shackelford hesitated a moment, and then answered, "Fred brought
it."

The colonel started violently, and then asked in a broken voice, "Fred
here?"

"Yes."

"How did he come? Tell me all about it."

So Mrs. Shackelford had to tell all she knew.

"I will see him," said the colonel.

Fred was told his father wished to see him; his heart gave a great
bound, as he rushed into the room with the cry of "Father!" on his lips,
and was about to spring into his arms when the stern command of "Stop!"
rooted him, as it were, to the floor.

"Before you call me father," said the colonel, sternly, "I want to know
whether you have repented of your folly, or whether you are here as a
spy. If I thought the latter, as sure as there is a God in heaven I
would be tempted to give you up to the authorities to be hanged."

If a dagger had pierced Fred's heart it would not have caused him keener
pain than the words of his father. He stood for a moment as if deprived
of the power of speech. Then the angry surges of an outraged nature came
to his relief, and his whole soul arose in protest to the indignity put
upon him.

"I have neither repented of my folly, as you call it," he replied
fiercely, "nor am I here as a spy. I came here on an errand of mercy at
the earnest request of Uncle Charles. Denounce me as a spy if you
choose; the act can be no more cruel than your words," and Fred turned
and left the room.

"Richard," sobbed Mrs. Shackelford, "are you not too severe with the
boy? At extreme peril to himself he brought a letter from Charles, and
his coming has been a great comfort to me."

Colonel Shackelford passed his hands before his eyes, and then groped
for a chair as if he had been smitten with blindness.

"Jennie," he replied in a low voice, trembling with emotion, "you do not
know the agony the course of that boy has caused me. Perhaps I was too
severe just now. Tell him I did not mean it. But I am half-crazed over
the terrible disaster at Donelson. In a few days, at the most, the
Northern horde will be here in Nashville. But," and his face lighted up
with enthusiasm, "all is not lost, Jennie; we will soon be back. I know
something of the plans of General Johnston. The army will concentrate
somewhere along the line of the Memphis and Charleston railroad,
probably at Corinth, and then before Grant and Buell can combine we will
crush them in detail. They think Donelson has broken our spirit; they
will find out differently."

Fred being only in the next room, heard these words, and they made a
deep impression on his mind.

Colonel Shackelford soon took his leave, bidding his sister-in-law keep
up courage, as the Northern army would soon be hurled back.

The panic in Nashville kept up until February 25th, when, to Fred's joy,
General Nelson's division came steaming up the river, and the city was
occupied by the Federal army. The stars and stripes once more floated
over the State capitol, and never again were they hauled down.

The alarm in Nashville in a great measure subsided, and business once
more resumed its way.

As for Fred, his delight at meeting General Nelson so soon was
unbounded. He had come to look upon him almost as a father, and the
fiery old fellow returned his affection.

Fred told the general of his aunt, and received the promise that he
would see that she was not molested or annoyed in any manner, and this
promise was religiously kept.

As long as he remained in Nashville Fred made his home at the house of
his aunt, and, notwithstanding his Yankee proclivities, became as great
a favorite with his cousin Kate as ever. When the time came for Buell to
advance, the family parted with Fred almost as affectionately as though
he had been one of them; and their sincere prayers followed him that he
might be preserved from the dangers of war.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"WE BOTH MUST DIE."

A few days after the surrender of Fort Donelson General Grant was
relieved of his command, and was even threatened with arrest. General
Halleck, in his headquarters at St. Louis, had worked himself into a fit
of what he considered most righteous anger. General Buell had ordered
one of Grant's divisions to Nashville, and Grant had taken a trip to
that city to find out the reason for the order. During his absence some
irregularities had occurred at Donelson, and Grant was most viciously
attacked by some anonymous scribbler, and then by the press. He was
accused of being absent from his command without leave, of drunkenness,
of maintaining no discipline, and of refusing to forward reports.

There was some ground for the last complaint. The telegraph operator at
Fort Henry was a Confederate in disguise. He coolly pocketed Halleck's
dispatches to Grant. He held his position for some days, and then fled
south with his pocket full of dispatches. General Grant was relieved of
his command, and General C. F. Smith, a gray-haired veteran, who smoked
a cigar as he led his men in the charge at Donelson, was appointed in
his place. The feeling against Grant was so bitter at headquarters, that
General McClellan telegraphed to General Halleck to arrest him if he
thought best.

The hero of Donelson deeply felt his disgrace, yet wrote to General
Smith:

"Allow me to congratulate you on your richly deserved promotion, and to
assure you that no one can feel more pleasure than myself."

Even General Halleck was at length convinced of the injustice he had
done Grant, and restored him to his command on March 13th.

In the mean time Grant's army, under Smith, had been gathering at
Pittsburg Landing, and Buell's army had been concentrated at Nashville.
The two armies were to concentrate at Pittsburg Landing, and then move
on Corinth, where the Confederates were gathering in force.

Not a thought seemed to have entered the minds of the Union generals
that the army at Pittsburg Landing might be attacked before Buell could
come up. Halleck, Grant, Buell, Smith, Sherman--all seemed to rest in
fancied security. If the possibility of an attack was ever spoken of, it
was passed by as idle talk.

General Buell commenced his forward movement from Nashville on March
15th. General A. D. McCook's division had the advance, General Nelson's
division came next. The bridge over Duck river near Columbia was found
burned. Buell set to work leisurely to rebuild it. It took days.

But to return to Fred. Just before the army left Nashville, General
Nelson placed in his hands a parchment.

"This," said Nelson, "is what General Buell and myself were talking
about in Louisville as a small reward for your service. Take it, my boy,
for you richly deserve it."

It was a commission as captain, and detailed him as an independent
scout, subject to the orders of General William Nelson.

"Why, General," stammered Fred, "I didn't want this. You know, you told
me it was better for me not to enlist."

"I know," responded Nelson, "but as you are with the army so much, it is
better for you to wear a uniform and have a rank that will command
respect."

So Fred became "captain" in earnest.

During his conversations with Nelson, Fred told him what he had heard
his father say to his aunt about Grant and Buell being crushed in
detail, and the general became thoroughly imbued with the idea that the
army at Pittsburg Landing was in grave danger. No other general shared
this fear. He chafed like a caged tiger at the delay in crossing Duck
river. At length he sought Buell, who laughed at his fears, and said
that he would not move until the bridge was completed. In vain Nelson
begged and pleaded.

"Why, Nelson, what's the matter with you any way?" at length asked
Buell.

"Matter? I will tell you," snapped Nelson. "Here we have been puttering
with this bridge for nearly a week, and all this time the force at
Pittsburg Landing is in danger of being attacked and annihilated."

Buell leaned back in his chair, and looking quizzically at Nelson, said:

"You seem to know more about it, General, than either Halleck or Grant.
Halleck telegraphed me that there is no danger of the force at Pittsburg
Landing being attacked."

"I don't care what Halleck telegraphs," roared Nelson, now thoroughly
aroused. "I tell you there is; I feel it, I know it."

"How do you know it?" asked Buell, showing considerable interest.

"Why sense tells me. Look at the situation. A small force encamped only
twenty miles from Corinth, where Johnston is concentrating his army.
Johnston is a fool if he doesn't attack, and no one yet has ever accused
him of being one. General, give my division the advance; let me ford
Duck river."

Buell was really fond of Nelson, despite his rough, overbearing ways,
and after some hesitation gave him the required permission. The life of
General Grant might not read as it does now, if that permission had been
withheld.

On the morning of March 29th Nelson's division forded Duck river, and
started on its forced march for Savannah, on the Tennessee river. On
this march Nelson showed no mercy to stragglers, and many were the
curses heaped upon his head. He was no favorite with his troops.

One day Fred found a boy, no older than himself, lashed behind a cannon.
The lad belonged to an Indiana regiment that in some manner had incurred
the displeasure of the general, and he was particularly severe on
members of this regiment if found straggling. The boy in question had
been found away from his command, and had been tied by his wrists to a
cannon. Behind this gun he had to march through the mud, every jolt
sending sharp pain through his wrists and arms, and if he should fall
life itself would be imperiled. It was a heartless, and in this case,
cruel punishment. Fred noticed the boy, and rode up to him and asked him
his name, and he gave it as Hugh Raymond. He was a fine-looking fellow,
and seemed to feel deeply his humiliation. He was covered with mud, and
the tears that he could not hold back had left their dirty trail down
his cheeks. Fred went to Nelson, begged for the boy's release, and got
it. It was but few requests that Nelson would not grant Fred.

When Nelson started on his march to Savannah he expected to reach that
place on April 7th. But once on the march his eagerness increased, and
he resolved to reach Savannah, if possible, by the 4th, or at least the
5th of the month.

On the morning of the third day's march Fred met with an adventure that
haunted him for years afterward. He never thought of it without a
shudder, and over and over again he lived it in his dreams, awaking with
a cry of agony that sounded unearthly to those who heard it.

General Nelson and staff had put up at the commodious house of a planter
named Lane. They were most hospitably entertained, although Mr. Lane
made no secret of the fact that he was an ardent sympathizer with the
South.

In the morning, as Fred was about to mount his horse to resume the
march, he discovered that he had left his field-glass in the room he had
occupied during the night. On returning for it, he heard voices in the
next room, one of which sounded so familiar that he stopped a moment to
listen, and to his amazement recognized the voice of his cousin Calhoun.
What could it mean? What was he doing there? One thing was certain; he
had been exchanged and was once more in the army. Calhoun and Mr. Lane
were engaged in earnest conversation, and Fred soon learned that his
cousin had been concealed in the house during the night.

"Have you learned what you wished?" Fred heard Mr. Lane ask.

"I have," replied Calhoun, "thanks to your kindness. I heard Nelson say
he would rush his division through, and that he wanted to be in Savannah
by the 5th. That is two days sooner than we expected. Johnston must,
shall strike Grant before that time. I must be in Corinth within the
next twenty-four hours, if I kill a dozen horses in getting there. Is
my horse where I left him, at the stable in the woods?"

"He is," replied Mr. Lane; "and well cared for and groomed. But
breakfast is ready; you must eat a hearty meal before you start."

Fred realized that the fate of an army was at stake. Something must be
done, and that something must be done quickly. Slipping out of the
house, he took a look around. Back of the house about a half a mile
distant was a thick piece of wood. A lane led through the fields to this
wood. No doubt it was there that Calhoun's horse was concealed.

Fred quickly made up his mind what to do. Mounting his horse, he rode
rapidly away until out of sight of the house; then, making Prince jump
the fence, he rode through the field until he reached the wood, and then
back nearly to the lane he had noticed. Tying his horse, he crept close
to the path, and concealed himself. He had not long to wait. He soon saw
Calhoun coming up the path with quick, springing steps. To Fred's great
joy he was alone. He let him pass, and then stealthily as an Indian
followed him. Calhoun soon reached the rude stable, and went in.

"Now, my hearty," said he, as he patted his horse, "we have a long hard
ride before us. But we carry news, my boy--news that may mean
independence to the Sunny South."

Strong arms were suddenly thrown around him, and despite his desperate
resistance and struggles, he soon found himself lying on his face, his
hands held behind his back and securely tied. His ankles were then
firmly bound together. When all this was done he was raised to his feet
and a voice said:

"Sorry, Cal, but I had to do it," and to Calhoun's amazement his cousin
stood before him, panting from his exertion.

For a moment Calhoun was speechless with astonishment; then his rage
knew no limit, and bound as he was, he tried to get at his cousin.

"I reckon," said Fred, quietly, "that I must make you more secure," and
taking a stout strap he lashed him securely to a post.

"Is this the way you keep your oath?" hissed Calhoun, and he spat at
Fred in his contempt. "Loose me, you sneaking villain, loose me at once,
or I will raise an alarm, and Mr. Lane and his men will be here, and
they will make short work of you."

Just then the notes of a bugle, sweet and clear, came floating through
the air.

"Do you hear that, Cal?" answered Fred. "You had better raise no alarm;
McCook's division is passing, and I have but to say a word and you
swing."

Calhoun ground his teeth in impotent rage. At last he asked:

"Fred, what do you want? Why do you use me so? Have you not sworn to
guard my life as sacredly as your own?"

Fred stood looking at his cousin a moment, as if in deep thought; then
an expression of keenest pain came over his face, and he said in a
strained, unnatural voice:

"Calhoun, believe me, I would I were dead instead of standing before you
as I do now."

"I should think that you would, if you have a vestige of honor left,"
answered Calhoun, with a sneer. "An oath, which an honorable man would
hold more sacred than life itself seems to be lightly regarded by you."

"I shall come to that directly," replied Fred, in the same unnatural
tone. To him his voice sounded afar off, as if some one else were
talking.

"Now, Calhoun, listen; you have a secret, a secret on which the fate of
an army depends."

"How do you know that?" asked Calhoun.

"I know. I heard you and Mr. Lane talking. Calhoun, you have been
playing the spy again. Hark! do you hear the tramp of McCook's columns.
If I did my duty I would cry, 'Here is a spy,' and what then?"

Calhoun's face grew ashen; then his natural bravery came to his rescue.

"I defy you," he exclaimed, his eyes flaming with wrath. "Hang me if you
will, and then in the sight of God behold yourself a murderer worse than
Cain."

"Calhoun, once more I say, listen. The information that you have you
shall not take to Johnston. Now, see how I trust you. What I do now
would hang me instead of you, if Buell knew. But I trust you with more
than life; I trust you with my honor. Give me your sacred word that you
will keep away from Corinth until after Buell and Grant have joined
forces; promise as sacredly that you will not directly or indirectly
divulge in any manner to any person the knowledge you have gained, and I
will release you."

Calhoun looked Fred in the face, hesitated, and then slowly answered:
"You seem to think I have more honor and will keep an oath better than
yourself. I shall make no such promise."

Fred staggered back. "Calhoun," he cried, "you do not, you cannot mean
it. You do not know what you say. Promise, for the love of heaven,
promise!"

"I will not promise, I will die first," replied Calhoun, doggedly. A
faint hope was arising in his mind that Fred was only trying to frighten
him; that he had only to remain firm, and that, at the worst, Fred would
only try to keep him a prisoner.

Calhoun's words were to Fred as a sentence of death. He sank on his
knees, and lifted his hands imploringly.

"Calhoun," he moaned, "see me, see me here at your feet. It is I, not
you, who is to be pitied. For the love we bear each other"--at the word
"love" Calhoun's lips curled in contempt--"for the sake of those near
and dear to us, for the honor of our names, promise, oh, promise me!"

"I tell you I will not promise. See, I spit on you, I despise you, defy
you."

"Then you must die," replied Fred, slowly rising to his feet.

Again Calhoun's face grew ashen. "Fred, you will not give me up to be
hanged?" he asked, tremulously.

"No, Calhoun, your dishonor would be my dishonor. I cannot keep my oath,
and have you hanged as a spy."

"What will you do then?" asked Calhoun.

"I shall shoot you with my own hand."

"Great God, Fred!" gasped Calhoun, shuddering. "You do not, cannot mean
that?"

"It is the only way I can keep my oath and still prevent you from
carrying the news that would mean destruction to Grant's army."

"Fred! Fred! you are a demon; you mock me. How can you keep your oath by
murdering me?"

"Calhoun, I swore to consider your honor as sacred as my own, to value
your life as highly as my own, to share with you whatever fate might
come. I shall keep my oath. After I put a bullet through your heart, I
shall put one through my own brain. _We both must die._"

Calhoun's face seemed frozen with horror. He gasped and tried to speak,
but no words came.

"Calhoun," continued Fred, in a tone that sounded as a voice from one
dead, "would that you had promised, for it can do no good not to
promise. Forgive me, as I forgive you. Now, say your prayers, for in a
moment we both will be standing before our Maker."

Fred bowed his head in silent prayer; but Calhoun, with his
horror-stricken face, never took his eyes from off his cousin.

"Good-bye, Calhoun," said Fred, as he raised his revolver.

"For God's sake, don't shoot! I promise." The words seemed to explode
from Calhoun's lips.

[Illustration: "For God's Sake, don't shoot! I promise."]

For a moment Fred stood as motionless as a statue, with the revolver
raised; then the weapon dropped from his nerveless hand, and with a low
moan he plunged forward on his face.

So long did he lie in a swoon that Calhoun thought he was dead, and
called to him in the most endearing tones. At last there was a slight
quivering of the limbs, then he began to moan; finally he sat up and
looked around as one dazed. Seeing Calhoun, he started, passed his hand
across his brow as if to collect his thoughts, and said, as if in
surprise: "Why, Calhoun----" Then it all came back to him in its terror
and awfulness, and he fell back sick and faint. Rallying, he struggled
to his feet, tottered to Calhoun, and cut the bonds that bound him.

"Go, go, Cal!" he whispered. "It will not do for us to be found here
together."

The two boys clasped hands for a moment, then each turned and went his
separate way.

When Fred joined Nelson an hour later the general looked at him sharply,
and asked: "What's the matter, Fred? Are you sick? You look ten years
older than you did yesterday."

"I am not really sick, but I am not feeling well, General," replied
Fred; "and I believe, with your permission, I will take an ambulance for
the rest of the day."

"Do, Fred, do," kindly replied Nelson, and for the rest of the day Fred
rode in an ambulance, where he could be alone with his thoughts.

That evening he asked General Nelson when he expected the division would
reach Savannah.

"By the 5th, if possible, on the 6th anyway," answered the general.

"Make it the 5th, General; don't let anything stop you; hurry! hurry!"
and thus saying, Fred walked away.

Nelson looked after him and muttered: "I wonder what's the matter with
the boy; he hasn't appeared himself to-day; but it may be he will be all
right in the morning. I shall take his advice and hurry, anyway."

The next day Nelson urged on his men with a fury that caused the air to
be blue with oaths. And it was well that he did, or Shiloh would have
never been reached in time to aid the gallant soldiers of Grant.

Buell saw no need of hurrying. He thought it would be a fine thing to
concentrate his whole army at Waynesborough and march into Savannah with
flying colors, showing Grant what a grand army he had. He telegraphed
General Halleck for permission to do so, and the request was readily
granted. In some manner it became known to the Confederate spies that
Buell's army was to halt at Waynesborough, and the glad tidings were
quickly borne to General Johnston, and when that general marched forth
to battle he had no expectation that he would have to meet any of
Buell's men.

General Buell hurried forward to stop Nelson at Waynesborough, according
to his plan; but to his chagrin he found that Nelson, in his headlong
haste, was already beyond Waynesborough, and so the plan of stopping him
had to be given up.

When General Nelson's advance was a little beyond Waynesborough, a party
engaged in the construction of a telegraph line from Savannah to
Nashville was met. A telegram was handed their general, which read:

     TO THE OFFICER COMMANDING BUELL'S ADVANCE:

     There is no need of haste; come on by easy stages.

     U. S. GRANT,
     Major-General Commanding.

Nelson read the telegram, and turning to Fred said:

"This is small comfort for all my hurry. I wonder if I have made a fool
of myself, after all. Buell will have the joke on me, sure."

"Better be that way than have you needed and not there," answered Fred.

"If we are needed and are not there, Grant can only blame himself," was
Nelson's reply.

At noon on April 5th Ammen's brigade, the advance of Nelson's division,
marched into Savannah.

Colonel Ammen reported his arrival, and said:

"My men are not tired; we can march on to Pittsburg Landing if
necessary."

The answer was: "Rest, and make your men comfortable. There will be no
battle at Pittsburg Landing. Boats will be sent for you in a day or
two."

There was to be a rude awakening on the morrow.

CHAPTER XIX.

SHILOH.

"The sun of Austerlitz" was neither brighter nor more glorious than the
sun which arose over the field of Shiloh Sunday morning, April 6, 1862.

Around the little log chapel, wont to echo to the voice of prayer and
song of praise, along the hillsides and in the woods, lay encamped the
Federal army. The soldiers had lain down the night before without a
thought of what this bright, sunny Sabbath would bring forth. A sense of
security pervaded the whole army. From commander down to private, there
was scarcely a thought of an attack.

"I have scarcely the faintest idea of an attack," wrote Grant to Halleck
on April 5th.

On the evening of the same day Sherman wrote to Grant: "I do not
apprehend anything like an attack upon our position."

Yet when these words were written the Confederate army was in battle
array not much over three miles distant.

But there was one general in the Federal army who was uneasy, he hardly
knew why. He was little known at the time, he never held a
distinguished command afterward; yet it was by his vigilance that the
Federal army was saved from surprise, perhaps from capture. This general
was Prentiss. A vague idea that something was wrong haunted him. The
ominous silence in front oppressed him, as something to be feared. Then
on Saturday a curious fact occurred. An unusual number of squirrels and
rabbits were noticed dodging through the line, and they were all headed
in one direction--toward Pittsburg Landing. What had startled them? It
set General Prentiss thinking.

To guard more surely against surprise Prentiss posted his pickets a mile
and a half in front of his lines, an unusual distance. At three o'clock
Sunday morning he sent three companies of the Twenty-fifth Missouri out
on a reconnoitering expedition. These three companies followed a road
that obliqued to the right, and a little after daylight met the enemy's
advance in front of Sherman's division. Thus the battle of Shiloh
opened.

When the first shots were fired, Preston Johnston, son of the
Confederate commander, looked at his watch, and it was just fourteen
minutes past five o'clock.

This little advance band must have made a brave fight, for Major
Hardcastle, in command of the Confederate outposts, reports that he
fought a thousand men an hour. It was after six o'clock when the general
advance of the whole Confederate army commenced, and the pickets along
the line of Prentiss' and Sherman's divisions were driven in. Preston
Johnston states that it was seven o'clock when the first cannon shot was
fired. It was eight o'clock before the engagement became general along
the whole line, and at that time portions of Prentiss' division had been
fighting for nearly three hours.

General Grant was at breakfast in Savannah, nine miles away, when he was
startled by the booming of cannon in the direction of Shiloh. Hastily
writing an order to General Nelson to procure a guide and march his
division up the river to a point opposite Pittsburg Landing, Grant left
his breakfast half-eaten, and boarding his dispatch boat was soon
steaming up the river. His fear was that the isolated division of
General Lewis Wallace, which lay at Crump's Landing, had been attacked.
Finding this not to be the case when he reached Crump's, he bade Wallace
hold his division in readiness and to await orders, and steamed on.

The roar of cannon had become almost continuous. Turning to Rawlins, his
chief-of-staff, Grant said:

"Rawlins, I am afraid this is a general attack. I did not expect it.
Prentiss' and Sherman's divisions are in front, and both are composed of
raw troops; but if we can hold them until Wallace and Nelson come we are
all right."

"It is a pity you did not order Wallace up when you were there,"
answered Rawlins.

"Yes," answered Grant, "but I couldn't make up my mind it was a general
attack. I am not entirely sure yet."

"It sounds very much like it," replied Rawlins, grimly.

When Grant reached the landing the battle was raging furiously, and all
doubts as to its being a general attack were removed from his mind.
Already the vanguard of what was afterward an army of panic-stricken men
had commenced gathering under the river bank.

A staff officer was sent back immediately to order General Wallace to
come at once. Grant then set to work quickly to do what he could to stem
the tide, which was already turning against him. Two or three regiments
which had just landed he ordered to points where they were the most
needed. He then rode the entire length of the line, encouraging his
generals, telling them to stand firm until Wallace and Nelson came, and
all would be well.

He found Sherman engaged in a terrific conflict. Some of his regiments
had broken at the first fire, and fled panic-stricken to the Landing.
Sherman was straining every nerve to hold his men firm. Oblivious of
danger, he rode amid the storm of bullets unmoved, encouraging,
pleading, threatening, as the case might be. Grant cautioned him to be
careful, and not expose himself unnecessarily, but Sherman answered: "If
I can stem the tide by sacrificing my life, I will willingly do it."

Then turning to Grant, he said, with feeling: "General, I did not
expect this; forgive me."

"Forgive you for what?" asked Grant, in surprise.

"I am your senior general," answered Sherman. "You depended on me for
reports; I quieted your fears. I reported there was no danger of an
attack. I couldn't believe it this morning until my orderly was shot by
my side, and I saw the long lines of the enemy sweeping forward. Forgive
me."

Grant was greatly moved. "There is nothing to forgive," he said, gently.
"The mistake is mine as well as yours. Neither did I expect this attack.
If I had, I could have had Buell here. As it is, Wallace and Nelson will
soon be here, and we will whip them; never fear."

"God grant it!" fervently replied Sherman.

By ten o'clock Prentiss had been pushed back clear through and beyond
his camp, and had taken position along a sunken road. General W. H. L.
Wallace's division came up and joined him on the right. This part of the
field was afterward known as the "Hornet's Nest."

Here Grant visited them, and seeing the strength of the position, told
them to hold it to the last man.

"We will," responded both Wallace and Prentiss.

Bravely did they keep that promise. For hours the Confederate lines beat
against them like the waves of the ocean, only to be flung back torn and
bleeding.

The roar of battle was now terrific. Both flanks of the Federal army
were bent back like a bow. Every moment the number of panic-stricken
soldiers under the bank grew larger.

Noon came, but no Lew Wallace, no Nelson. Turning to an aid, Grant said:
"Go for Wallace; bid him hurry, hurry."

Everywhere, except in the center, the Confederates were pressing the
Union lines back. But the desperate resistance offered surprised
Johnston; he had expected an easier victory. Many of his best regiments
had been cut to pieces. Thousands of his men had also fled to the rear.
The afternoon was passing; the fighting must be pressed.

A desperate effort was made to turn the Federal left flank, and thus
gain the Landing. Like iron Hurlbut's men stood, and time after time
hurled back the charging columns. At last the Confederates refused to
charge again. Then General Johnston placed himself at their head and
said: "I will lead you, my children."

The effect was electrical. With wild cheers his men pressed forward;
nothing could withstand the fury of the charge. The Federal left was
crushed, hurled back to the Landing in a torn, disorganized mass.

But the brave leader fell mortally wounded. For a time the Confederate
army stood as if appalled at its great loss. The thunder of battle died
away, only to break out here and there in fitful bursts. But the
respite was brief, and then came the final desperate onslaught.

With features as impassive as stone, Grant saw his army crumbling to
pieces. Officer after officer had been sent to see what had become of
General Lew Wallace; he should have been on the field hours before. With
anxious eyes Grant looked across the river to see if he could catch the
first fluttering banner of Nelson's division. There was no aid in sight.

An officer rides up, one of the messengers he had sent for Wallace.
Grant's face lights up. Wallace must be near. But, no. The officer
reports: "Wallace took the wrong road. I found him five miles further
from the Landing than when he started. Then he countermarched, instead
of hurrying forward left in front. He lost much precious time. Then he
is marching so slow, so slow. He will not be here before night."

For an instant a spasm of pain passed over Grant's face. "He
countermarched; coming slow," he said, as if to himself, "Great God,
what does he mean?" and then all was calm again.

Turning to Colonel Webster, he said: "Plant the siege guns around the
Landing. See that you have every available piece of artillery in
position."

And it was only this frowning line of artillery that stood between
Grant's army and utter rout.

"Have you any way of retreat mapped out?" asked General Buell of Grant.
Buell had come up from Savannah on a boat, and was now on the field,
viewing with consternation and alarm the tremendous evidences of
demoralization and defeat.

Turning to him as quick as a flash, Grant replied: "Retreat! retreat! I
have not yet despaired of victory."

Both the right and left wings of Grant's army were now crushed back from
the center. Around the flanks of W. H. L. Wallace's and Prentiss'
divisions the exultant Confederates poured. Well had Wallace and
Prentiss obeyed the orders of Grant to hold their position. From ten
o'clock in the forenoon until nearly five o'clock in the afternoon their
lines had hurled back every attack of the enemy. The Hornet's Nest stung
every time it was touched. But now the divisions were hemmed in on every
side. The brave Wallace formed his men to cut their way out, and as he
was cheering them on he fell mortally wounded. No better soldier than
Wallace fell on that bloody field. As for the two divisions, they were
doomed.

General Grant sits on his horse, watching the preparations for the last
stand. An officer, despair written in every lineament of his face, rides
up to him.

"General," he says, "Sherman reports that he has taken his last
position. He has but the remnant of one brigade with him and what
stragglers he has gathered. His slender line cannot withstand another
attack."

"Go back," quietly said Grant, "and tell Sherman to hold if possible;
night is most here."

McClernand's division had been standing bravely all day, and had
furnished fewer stragglers than any other division in the army, but now
an orderly with a pale face and his left arm resting in a bloody sling,
came spurring his reeking horse up to Grant, and exclaimed:

"General McClernand bade me report, that after his division had most
gallantly repulsed the last charge of the enemy, for some unaccountable
reason, the left regiments broke, and are fleeing panic-stricken to the
Landing."

"Go tell McClernand," said Grant, "that he has done well, but he must
hold out just a little longer. Wallace will be here shortly."

General Hurlbut, his face black with the smoke of battle, rode up.
"General," he said, in a broken voice, "my division is gone, the whole
left is gone; the way to the Landing is open to the enemy."

"General," replied Grant, without a quiver, "rally what broken regiments
and stragglers you can behind the guns, close up as much as possible on
McClernand, and hold your position to the last man."

Now there came roaring past a confused mass of white-faced officers and
soldiers commingled, a human torrent stricken with deadly fear.

"All is lost! All is lost!" they cry. "Prentiss and Wallace have
surrendered."

Grant's face was seen to twitch. "Oh, for Lew Wallace, for Nelson, or
for night," he groaned.

From across the river there came to his ears the sound of cheering.
Grant looked, and there among the trees he saw the banners of Nelson's
regiments waving.

Hope came into his eyes; his face lighted up.

"Go, go!" he cried to his aids, "go to Sherman, to McClernand, to
Hurlbut. Tell them to hold! hold! hold! Help is near."

But if Grant had known it the danger had already passed; for Beauregard
had given orders for his army to cease fighting. Night was coming on,
the capture of W. H. L. Wallace's and Prentiss' divisions had
disarranged his lines, and thinking that he was sure of his prey in the
morning, he had given orders to withdraw.

One brigade of the Confederate army did not receive this order, and when
Nelson's advance crossed the river this brigade was charging the line of
cannon on the left. These cannon were entirely unprotected by infantry,
and Grant himself placed Nelson's men in line as they arrived.

The Confederate brigade was advancing with triumphant shouts, when they
were met with a withering volley and sent reeling back. Then, to his
surprise, the commander found that of all of the Confederate army his
brigade was the only one continuing the fight, and he hastily fell back.
The battle for the day was over.

Alone and practically unaided the brave soldiers of the Army of the
Tennessee had fought the battle of Sunday and saved themselves from
capture. To them belongs the glory.

The battle of Monday was mainly the fight of the Army of the Ohio.
Without its aid Grant could never have been able to turn defeat into
victory, and send the Confederate hosts in headlong flight back to
Corinth. There would have been no advance Monday morning if Buell had
not been on the field. The whole energy of Grant would have been devoted
to the saving of what remained of his army.

The terrible conflict of the day had left its impress on the Army of the
Tennessee. There was but a remnant in line capable of battle when night
came.

The generals of divisions were so disheartened that the coming of Buell
failed to restore their spirits. Even the lion-hearted Sherman wavered
and was downcast. Grant found him sitting in the darkness beside a tree,
his head buried in his hands, and his heart full of fears. He had fought
as generals seldom fight. Three horses had been shot under him, and he
had received two wounds. When Grant told him there was to be an advance
in the morning, he sadly shook his head and said: "No use, General, no
use; the fight is all out of the men. I do not possibly see how we can
assume the offensive."

"Look here, Sherman," replied Grant. "Remember how it was at Donelson.
If we assume the offensive in the morning a glorious victory awaits us.
Lew Wallace is here; Buell will have at least 20,000 fresh troops on the
field. The Confederates, like ourselves, are exhausted and demoralized.
If we become the aggressors, success is sure."

Sherman became convinced; his fears were gone, his hopes revived.

Why was it that the fiery and impetuous Nelson was so late in getting on
the field? He was only nine miles away early in the morning, and had
received orders from Grant to move his division opposite Pittsburg
Landing. If there had been any roads there would have been no excuse for
his delay. But a heavily timbered, swampy bottom lay between him and his
destination. The river had been very high, overflowing the whole bottom,
and when the water had receded it left a waste of mud, from which all
vestige of a road had disappeared. To plunge into that waste of mud and