body, so turned back. It was precious time lost but the trail was again struck, where they had crossed the pike, and once more a plunge was made into the timber and cedars.

For miles the trees were so thick, and the foliage so dense, that it became impossible to ride other than single file; but, retarded as was our speed, the chase became hotter and more exciting than ever. The Yankee blood of the hunters was at fever heat and they determined to run the game to cover. The sight of an abandoned horse (and the hard-pressed enemy was now leaving his own as well as our animals) was the signal for a yell that the pursued might have heard and trembled at miles away. Then spurs were clapped into horses’ flanks to urge them still faster on; and thus the column—if column that could be called which column was none—swept, dashed, plunged onward. Occasionally a trooper was dismounted by a projecting limb, and as he clambered out of the way, the sympathetic cry was wafted back from some comrade, “Say, what infantry rigiment does you’ns belong to?”

Now the Colonel’s voice rings shrilly through the forest with the same old talismanic “forward!” The refrain is taken up, sent back along the column until the rearmost rider hears and shouts a returning echo, “We are coming, father Abraham!” No cowardice there. No lagging behind from choice. Every man was straining nerve and muscle to get ahead. We were fast gaining on the enemy and they knew it, trembling at every shout wafted to their ears. They grew desperate, dug the rowels into their horses, cursed their prisoners, threatened them, shot at them to make them keep up, and wounded one poor fellow to the death. These facts were gleaned afterward.

We had gained rapidly and thought them almost within grasp. But “the best laid plans of mice and men, etc., etc.” Desperation nerved them and they flew down the pike, scattering the stones behind. But we ran them into the net prepared. The detachment that had gone out later from camp struck the pike opportunely and received the enemy warmly as we drove him into their arms. A brisk engagement followed, partly hand to hand. The fight was soon over, the enemy being routed, scattered and driven in every direction. At the onset Morgan, with his staff and a lot of blooded horses, broke away and escaped across Stone river. Our command being united and ready to move an inventory of affairs and effects was taken. The enemy left four dead on the field, four sound captives in our hands and two wounded. Of the ninety-four horses taken we recaptured seventy-five; of the forty-eight teamsters, thirty-one, and also Capt. Braiden. A number of rebels were wounded, but not seriously, and escaped. One of the two wounded prisoners—Warfield by name—was related to one of the most prominent and wealthy families of Cincinnati. The other was a Mississippian, by the name of Love. The writer visited the two in the regimental hospital that night. Love had a terrible wound, and knew it was mortal, but his last breath was expended in cursing and execrating the “Yankees” in the most horrible and vile language tongue could utter.

The chase being over, the command returned—all except the Company with the rifles, who were to continue the pursuit. Pushing on again we struck the Murfreesboro pike, near Lavergne, and got on the heels of one detachment, but these, knowing the country, broke for the cedars and escaped. We saw no more of them and returned to camp at 8 p. m., after a ride of about thirty miles, part of this on a keen run.

About a month after the incidents just related, the Fourth Ohio Cavalry had the honor of capturing Huntsville, Ala., the “Queen City of the Mountains.” About the middle of March, 1862, Gen. Mitchell’s Division of Buell’s army left Nashville and pushed south to Murfreesboro, thence to Shelbyville, following the rebel Johnston,