In the afternoon I went out to the guard house and saw these two men sitting on the floor in that condition, and I then concluded that for a serious. violation of military law a man might be shot, but I would never again subject an American soldier to a humiliation like this. Yet, strange to say, it was not infrequently resorted to in our volunteer army.

Accordingly I sent for the captain and changed the punishment, ordering that fifty pounds of broken stones be put into grain sacks, that one should be fastened on the back of each man, and that they should thus be marched over the parade ground for two hours a day for two weeks; and the case was explained in an order published to the command.

These were the only desertions I had during the war, and the most severe punishment I ever inflicted for anything.

I had been given as a scout and guide a Tennesseean by the name of Fullington. He was a deputy sheriff of Claiborne County and a member of the First Tennessee (loyal) Infantry, a typical mountaineer, with an inveterate hatred of the "rebels."

One evening the pickets brought in a prisoner in citizens' clothes, who had been caught slipping around inside of our lines. I questioned him in the presence of Fullington. He was a simple-minded mountaineer about twenty-five years old. He admitted that he belonged to a rebel regiment, and said his colonel had. told him that if he would find out how many men we

had and what we were doing, he would give him a thirty day furlough to go home.

"Do you know what a spy is?" I asked, "and what his punishment is if caught?"

He said that he did not. I told him that the laws of war require that he be hanged, "and," said I, “you have been caught trying to enter our line as a spy."

Fullington was becoming interested. The prisoner looked up in a dazed surprise and asked:

"Are you going to hang me?"

Fullington's eyes glittered with an odd brightness as he watched me. I replied, "I have not determined what to do, but if I decide to hang you, it will be at six o'clock tomorrow morning."

Fullington's expression was jubilant. The prisoner looked about him in sorrowful half-comprehension, then with a long drawn sigh, asked:

"Would you let me write a letter?"

"To whom do you want to write?" "My wife," he said.

"Have you any children?"

"Yes, two."

"Well, you may write, but I must see the letter."

I gave him pencil and paper and sent him under guard to an old log school house within the camp. Fullington came forward with a look of satisfaction. and said: "I'd like you to put that fellow in my charge." The letter he wrote was a mere pitiful scrawl, bidding his wife good bye, with a kiss for the babies, and the hope that he would not be forgotten.

The next morning some wagons were to go back to Lexington for supplies, and I sent the prisoner with a note to headquarters, very much to the disappointment of Fullington, who, after watching the wagons as they started off, came to my tent and sat down with the familiar manner of equality which all mountain people carry, and began sadly:

We had some

down to help

"Well, I don't understand you Northerners at all. It looks like you don't know what war is. We think war means killin'. Ef you had a let me have thet chap, I'd ha saved you all this bother. schoolin' down here afore you'ns come us. You may think I hain' got any feelins, and neither have I fer that breed o' cattle. We had some experience in Tennessee afore we seen any soldier f'm the North. Ol' Harris sent his militìa up to the mountains to press us into his damned rebel army. They wuz too many fer us, an' we had to leave our homes and make pens in the woods to sleep in o' nights. Our cabins wuz watched, 'n' our families abused. We had some bloody fights when we met, en' I can say my rifle done its share. But I had to leave, en' I went to camp Dick Robinson and jined the Union army.

"On th' night I left, a rebel gang come to my cabin door en' as't my wife whur I wuz. She tole 'em she didn't know which wuz true. They tole 'er, hit wuz a damn lie, thet I hed been seen thet evenin', en' ef she didn't tell whur I wuz, they's a gion' tuh burn down the damn house. She wouldn't

tell, and they up en' burnt hit down; 'en hit was twelve o'clock at night, en' the snow was four inches deep on the mountain. En' with half drunk yells en' curses they left her a standin' by our burnin' cabin, with six little children, one o' 'em six months ol', another, two yeʼrs, and all o' 'em in thin cloze, a havin' to find the neardest neighbor's cabin three miles away through the woods. That night's tramp killed my wife, and two o' my children. You may think I'm wicked in my bitterness, well- mebby, but hit's the religion o' my life t' meet them damned scoundrels in a battle er single handed, I don' care which, en' get a chanst t' give 'em a bloody pass t' th' hell where they belong in, wherever that is!

"You people f'm the North don' seem to have no feelin' in this war; but then you got no personal accounts to settle. But hit's different 'ith us in the mountains, en' we're a hopin' the war wont let up till we c'n git some little satisfaction fer whut's ben done tuh us."

Whether or not poor Fullington ever got his measure of satisfaction, I do not know, for he was with us but a short time.*

*I have learned with regret that in one of these bitter Mountain broils since the war that brave Fullington was killed.

CHAPTER 9.

Raid on Big Creek Gap. - The Morgan Fox Chase.

In June 1863, it became necessary to open railroad communications between Chattanooga and the East by way of Knoxville, which at that time was held by the enemy. General Saunders of Kentucky was directed to organize a cavalry force, and make reconnoisance around that important city to learn something of the strength of the enemy and the defence. of the place. This force included my battalion of the Ninth Ohio Cavalry then in camp at London, Kentucky, and the Forty-fourth Ohio Mounted Infantry under Colonel Sam Gilbert, a personal friend and very able officer, whose son, Cass Gilbert, is the well-known architect of New York City. Colonel Gilbert was ordered to cross the Cumberland River at Williamsburg, make a detour to the left, cross Pine Mountain Gap, to the east and make a feint on Big Creek Gap, East Tennessee, where a force of the enemy was stationed. The object of this detour was to attract the enemy's attention, and to keep them from disturbing General Saunders in his effort to get around Knoxville.

Colonel Gilbert directed me to move by way of Pine Mountain Gap while he crossed by another route. The gap was known to be held by the enemy,