to be bushwhacked, or, perhaps, meet a column in the road, and be shot to death; but I swore I would have that map or die, and when I reached the house, with my horse white with sweat, a lady met me at the gate with the map, and said : Fly, for they are here." It is useless to state that the map was soon in General Butler's hands. This same faithful horse, like Tam O'Shanter's Meg, “good as ever lifted leg," was killed at Campbell's Mill, on the Juniper creek, in Chesterfied county, when his rider, and a private soldier belonging to the Phillips' Legion, named McDaniel, being possessed with more pluck than judgment, charged fourteen Yankees in the Campbell house.

Well do I remember how poor Mrs. Campbell looked when she ran out of the house and said: "My gracious alives, men, if you don't stop that shooten somebody is gwine to get hurt." I soon discovered that she was right; my horse was shot and so was I, but the poor horse had strength enough to take me to the swamp, where McDaniel and I held a council of war and decided to separate at

Poor fellow, I hope he is doing well; I have not heard of him since. I wandered about in the woods, dodging blue coats until dark, when I met an old citizen who gave me his hat and said: "Here is a good negro who will conduct you through the woods to Society Hill to Dr. Pressley's house, and he will let you have a horse." Upon our safe arrival, I gave this faithful negro all I possessed, which was a five dollar Confederate bill. Our scouts took the bummers in at Campbell's Mill, and ate the dinner which they made old Mrs. Campbell prepare for them. At Dr. Pressley's hospitable home I fortunately met Colonel Zimmerman Davis, and the next morning I was mounted on Dr. Pressley's horse, and with Colonel Davis crossed the Great Pee Dee, and went in the direction of Bennettsville, and after travelling a few miles I returned Dr. Pressley's horse, having procured a wild, young horse, which could run like a deer. We spent the night at Bennettsville, and early next morning met our men at Cheraw, where a hot skirmish was going on. A battery was placed in position to shell the town, and while Generals Hampton and Butler were consulting in the street a shell killed the horse of Sergeant Wells, of the Charleston Light Dragoons. This gallant company had been so badly cut to pieces in Virginia that only fifteen or twenty men were left, and, while at Columbia, General Butler detailed these brave boys as his escort, and the first shell fired into Cheraw killed the horse just mentioned. Just before reaching Lynch's river we stopped at a house where a deserter lived. He told us that he belonged to Nelson's Battalion, Hagood's Brigade, and took us for Kilpatrick's men, opened his corn-crib, fed our horses, and assured us that he was with us, and would do what he could to crush the rebellion. I never can forget how this unfortunate man looked next morning when he found, to his utter disgust, that he had been entertaining "gray coats."

I take the following from a letter written by Colonel Zimmerman Davis: "Among many similar brilliant exploits of our Major-General, M. C. Butler, was a morning attack upon one of Sherman's wagon trains on the west side of Little Lynch's creek, in Kershaw county, on February 22d or 23d. The night before was cold, dark and rainy, when he boldly marched his command into the very midst of Sherman's army, and about 11 o'clock went into camp in sight of and between camp fires of two army corps. His men were in the saddle again before dawn, drawn up in column of fours, in close proximity to an encampment of wagon trains, anxiously awaiting the opportune moment to charge. Just as the wagons were being hitched up and had driven into the road for the purpose of beginning the day's march, their escort in front, the shrill blasts of our bugles sounding the charge, awoke echoes in the forests around, and away we went shouting, shooting and hewing with sabre. It was but the work of a few seconds, and in an incredible short space of time about 200 prisoners and nineteen splendid army wagons, each drawn by six fine mules, clad in such harness as our Confederate teamsters had not seen for many a day, we put across the stream formed by Little and Big Lynch's creek, where they were safe from rescue."

This wagon train was coming after the very corn that our horses had just eaten, and in this charge that took them in, one of General Hampton's bravest scouts, Jim Doolin, was severely wounded in the thigh, and the best we could do for him was to put him in a little hut near the river, in Darlington county. Jim Doolin was as brave as Julius Cæsar, and was detailed to scout for General Hampton from a Virginia regiment in Rosser's brigade. I have never seen him since telling him good-bye in the hut, but I hear he is living up in the valley now at his old home. Colonel Davis continues: "After the charge, while waiting in the road in columns of fours, prepared to resist a counter charge from the enemy's main body, should one be attempted while the captured train was crossing the creek, I observed a horse running through the woods without a rider, and dispatched Private McElroy of my old company, the South Carolina Rangers, to capture and bring him in. He did so, and the horse was equipped with a perfectly new English bridle and martingales of soft, yellow leather; I lost no time in transferring them to my own horse. I swapped saddle pouches, too, as the captured one was also new. One side of the pouch was empty, the other side contained nothing but a book, which, upon examination proved to be the diary of Lieutenant John A. McQueen. The diary was frequently referred to and discussed by General Butler and Colonel Aiken and myself during the next day, as we had opportunity on the march. These words were written in the diary: 'It was heartrending to see the wanton destruction of property and the insults visited upon the defenseless women and children of Columbia by our Union soldiers. I did all I could to prevent it, but was powerless.'''

Butler's old brigade was commanded by Colonel Hugh K. Aiken, and on the morning of the 24th of February, 1865, General Butler, being then at Kellytown, directed Colonel Aiken to take a regiment and proceed down the east bank of the creek and ascertain if any portion of Sherman's army had crossed into Darlington county. Colonel Aiken selected the Fifth South Carolina Cavalry, commanded by Colonel Davis. This gallant old regiment had been cut to pieces, so that only about 300 men answered to roll-call. On the road to DuBose bridge Colonel Aiken met a picket body of men commanded by Lieutenant John A. McQueen, and led the charge with Colonel Davis by his side, and it being dark the men got into close quarters, and Colonel Aiken was captured with Sergeant Heighler, but jerked the reins out of the hand of the Yankee who held them, escaped, rode up to Colonel Davis and dismounted, but was hit immediately by one of the parting shots of the enemy, and cried out: “Davis, I am dying, catch me.” His nephew and courier, young Willie Aiken, caught him as he fell, and his death was instantaneous. Thus ended the career of the gallant Hugh K. Aiken, colonel of the Sixth South Carolina Cavalry. In this night charge, as Colonel Zimmerman Davis drew near the enemy, he saw that the two men in the road ahead of him were officers and both firing pistols, their last shot passing through his hair at less than five paces. He fired at them once as they approached, and again as he went rushing by; he struck the one nearest to him a severe blow with the muzzle of his pistol and pulled the trigger at the same instant, severely wounding Lieutenant John A. McQueen, who was taken by the Confederates to the house of Mr. DuBose, where he showed Dr. Porter's letter and was treated with the utmost kindness. As soon as Dr. Porter heard of it he was at once by his side, and could not have been more tender

to his own son.
From the DuBose house Lieutenant McQueen was
sent to Camden, and there it was that Dr. Porter nursed him.
After leaving Cheraw we had a pretty hot skirmish at Rockingham,
N. C., and the next day charged a regiment of cavalry, just after
they had opened a barrel of wine. I led this charge, simply because
I lost control of my horse-he being young and afraid of a gun-
fortunately our men, making as much noise as they did, created a
panic among the Yankees and they stampeded, thereby saving me
from death or capture. While our command was in Chesterfield
county, Pink Brantley, General Butler's orderly, got permission to
visit the house of a friend, where the Yankees captured General
Butler's satchel, containing among other things his comb and brush,
and old Pink, too. While we felt sorry for Pink we could not refrain
from laughing when we heard of it, because when Pink left us he
said no ten or fifteen Yankees could catch him, he knew the country
too well, he was raised there. Little did he think that he would be
raised again so soon by the Yankees.

The gallant Colonel L. P. Miller commanded the Sixth cavalry from the date of General Dunovant's death, October 1st, 1864. Colonel Miller was one of the best disciplinarians in the army, and is now the only surviving field officer of that historic regiment. Major Fergusson was wounded on the 10th of March, 1865, and a few years ago went to his reward full of honors, both as soldier and citizen.

On the 9th day of March, 1865, General Hampton rode ahead of the command all day by himself, and the men would look at each other and say: “Look out, boys, Old Wade is fixing a trap for them; we will be into it to-night," while others would say: "We will give it to them to-morrow,” which forcibly reminded me of what General Mart Gary said to a Yankee general in Virginia one day after they had arranged some matter, under a flag of truce, and had separated, but before the general in blue was fifty yards away, the "Old Bald Eagle" called to him and said: “I am coming over tomorrow and give you hell," and sure enough he did.

About sundown of this black, cheerless, drizzling day, we caught up with General Hampton, who consulted with General Butler, and just at dark General Butler paralyzed the pickets of the Fifth Ohio, United States Cavalry, not by shooting at them, but by simply commanding them to surrender-not a shot was fired. It was the coolest thing I ever witnessed, and within ten minutes more, he had captured fifteen or twenty bummers, in the same cool and deliberate

:

way, thus leaving Hampton at Kilpatrick's picket post, with the key to the lock of the situation well in hand. A "council of war" was held with General Wheeler, and in a short time Hampton and Wheeler were walking through and around Kilpatrick's camp, where all was still as death, save across the road, where the provost guard kept a close watch over some twenty-five of our men, who had been captured along the route from Columbia, and were all barefooted and bareheaded and almost naked. Mr. Flynn Davis, a brother of Colonel Zimmerman Davis, and Mr. Frank Niernsee, with his brother, Reuben Niernsee, now of Washington, D. C., were among the prisoners recaptured. Just at the break of day, a few minutes after the formation of the line, and in the midst of that profound silence which precedes the storm of a battle, General Butler ordered Colonel Gid. Wright and Hugh Scott by his side, with the gallant old Cobb Legion, to lead the charge, followed by the rest of Butler's "Spartan band." No charge was ever made with more determination. The charge of the "Scotch Greys" at Waterloo was not equal to it. General Wheeler was ordered to support us on the right, but unfortunately his horse bogged up in the miry woods, and, like Moses of old and the promised land, they could see us and hear of us, but could not get to us at once. Oh, that I had the power to depict this hand-to-hand fight! The men on both sides were brave, and fought with more desperation than I had ever before seen. Victor Hugo says "a certain amount of tempest is always mingled with a battle." Every historian traces to some extent the lineament that pleases him in the hurly-burly. What is a battle? An oscillation. The immobility of a mathematical plan expresses a minute and not a day. To paint a battle those powerful painters who have chaos in their pencils are needed. Let us add that there is always a certain moment in which the battle generates into a combat-is particularized and broken up into countless and detail facts. The historian in such a case has the evident right to sum up; he can only catch the principal outlines of the struggle, and it is not given to any narrator, however conscientious he may be, to absolutely fix the form of that horrible cloud which is called "the battle." Butler's men charged down the road, and as soon as they rode over the sleeping men in blue, they wheeled their horses, and rode over them again-three times they rode over themwhile the men under the blankets would say, "we surrender," but grey coats." Soon

would fight like tigers when they saw so few

،،