Restful Summer days end-the Union people of east Tennessee.

Though every man in the Army of the Cumberland felt completely worn out at the end of the Tullahoma campaign, it needed but a few days’ rest in pleasant camps on the foothills of the Cumberland Mountains, with plenty of rations and supplies of clothing, to beget a restlessness for another advance.

They felt envious of their comrades of the Army of the Tennessee, who had cornered their enemy in Vicksburg and forced him to complete surrender.

On the other hand, their enemy had evaded battle when they offered it to him on the place he had himself chosen, had eluded their vigorous pursuit, and now had his army in full possession of the great objective upon which the eyes of the Army of the Cumberland had been fixed for two years Chattanooga.

It was to Chattanooga that Gen. Scott ultimately looked when he began the organization of forces north of the Ohio River.  It was to Chattanooga that Gens.  Anderson, Sherman and Buell looked when they were building up the Army of the Ohio.  It was nearly to Chattanooga that Gen. Mitchel made his memorable dash after the fall of Nashville, when he took Huntsville, Bridgeport, Stevenson and other outlying places.  It was for Chattanooga that the “Engine Thieves” made their thrilling venture, that cost eight of their lives.  It was to Chattanooga that Buell was ordered with the Army of the Ohio, after the “siege of Corinth,” and from which he was run back by Bragg’s flank movement into Kentucky.  It was again toward Chattanooga that Rosecrans had started the Army of the Cumberland from Nashville, in December, 1862, and the battle of Stone River and the Tullahoma campaign were but stages in the journey.

President Lincoln wanted Chattanooga to relieve the sorely persecuted Unionists of East Tennessee.  Military men wanted Chattanooga for its immense strategic importance, second only to that of Vicksburg.

The men of the Army of the Cumberland wanted Chattanooga, as those of the Army of the Potomac wanted Richmond, and those of the Army of the Tennessee had wanted Vicksburg, as the victor’s guerdon which would crown all their marches, skirmishes and battles.

But between them and Chattanooga still lay three great ranges of mountains and a broad, navigable river.  Where amid all these fortifications of appalling strength would Bragg offer them battle for the Confederacy’s vitals?

“I don’t care what Bragg’s got over there,” said Si, looking up at the lofty mountain peaks, as he and Shorty discussed the probabilities.  “He can’t git nothing worse than the works at War Trace and Shelbyville, that he took six months to build, and was just goin’ to slaughter us with.  And if we go ahead now he won’t have the rain on his side.  It looks as if it has set in for a long dry spell; the country ’ll be so we kin git around in it without trouble.  If the walkin’ only stays good we’ll find a way to make Mr. Bragg hump out of Chattanooga, or stay in there and git captured.”

“Yes,” assented Shorty, knocking the ashes out of his brierwood pipe, and beginning to shave down a plug of bright navy to refill it, “and I’ll put old Rosey’s brains and git-there agin all the mountains and rivers and forts, and breastworks and thingama-jigs that Bragg kin git up.  Old Rosecrans is smarter any day in the week than Bragg is on Sunday.  He kin give the rebels cards and spades and run ’em out before the fourth round is played.  Only I hope he won’t study about it as long as he did after Stone River.  I want to finish up the job in warm, dry weather, and git home.”

And his eyes took on a far-away look, which Si had no difficulty interpreting that “home” meant a place with a queer name in distant Wisconsin.

“Well,” said Si reflectively, “old Rosecrans didn’t study long after he took command of us at Nashville, before plunking us squarely at the Johnnies on Stone River.  I think he’s out for a fight now, and bound to git it in short meter.”

But the impatient boys had to wait a long Summer month, until the railroads to the rear could be repaired to bring up supplies, and for the corn to ripen so as to furnish forage for the cavalry.

But when, on the 16th of August, 1863, Rosecrans began his campaign of magnificant strategy for the possession of Chattanooga, the 200th Ind. had the supreme satisfaction of leading the advance up into the mountains of living green to find the enemy and bring him to bay.

A few days’ march brought them up onto the Cumberland Plateau.  They had now left the country of big plantations with cottonfields, and come upon one of small farms and poor people.  Si, with a squad, had been marching far ahead all day as an advance-guard.  They had seen no rebels, but all the same kept a constant and vigilant outlook for the enemy.  They were approaching a log house of rather better class than any they had seen since ascending the mountain.  As they raised the crest of a hill they heard a horn at the house give a signal, which set them keenly alert, and they pushed forward rapidly, with their guns ready.  Then they saw a tall, slender young woman, scarcely more than a girl, dart out of the house and attempt to cross the road and open ground to the dense woods.  Si sprang forward in pursuit.  She ran like a young deer, but Si was swift of foot, and had taken the correct angle to cut her off.  He caught her flying skirts and then grasped her wrist.

“Where are you goin’, and what for?” he asked sternly, as he held her fast and looked into her frightened eyes, while her breast heaved with exertion and fear.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhar, an’ for nothin’,” she an swered sullenly.

“Yes you was, you young rebel,” said Si.  “You were goin’ to tell some sneakin’ rebels about us.  Where are they?”

“Wa’n’t gwine to do nothin’ o’ the kind,” she answered between gasps for breath.  “I don’t know whar thar’s no rebels.  Thought they’uns had all done gone away down the mounting till I seed yo’uns.”

“Come, girl, talk sense,” said Si roughly.  “Tell me where those rebels are that you was goin’ to, and do it quick.  Boys, look sharp.”

A tall, very venerable man, with long, snowy-white hair and whiskers came hobbling up, assisting his steps with a long staff with a handle of a curled and twisted ram’s horn.

“Gentlemen,” he said, with a quavering voice, “I beg yo’uns won’t harm my granddaughter.  She hain’t done nothin’ wrong, I’ll sw’ar it, t’ yo’uns.  We’uns ’s for the Union, but that hain’t no reason why we’uns should be molested.  We’uns ‘s peaceable, law-abidin’ folks, an’ ain’t never done nothin’ agin the Southern Confederacy.  All our neighbors knows that.  Ax any o’ they’uns.  If yo’uns must punish someone, take me.  I’m the one that’s responsible for their Unionism.  I’ve learned ’em nothin’ else sense they’uns wuz born.  I’m a very old man, an’ hain’t long t’ live, nohow.  Yo’uns kin do with me what yo’uns please, but for my sake spare my innocent granddaughter, who hain’t done nothin’.”

Si looked at him in amazement.  It was no uncommon thing for people to protest Unionism, but sincerity was written in every line of the old man’s face.

“You say you’re Union,” he said.  “If that’s so, you’ve nothin’ to fear from us.  We’re Union soldiers.  But what was that signal with the horn, and where was this girl goin’?”

“She blowed the horn at my orders, to inform my neighbors, and she wuz gwine on an arrant for me.  Whatever she done I ordered her to do.  Yo’uns kin visit hit all on my head.  But hit wa’n’t nothin’ agin yo’uns or the Southern Confederacy.”

“I tell you we’re Union soldiers,” repeated Si.  “Can’t you tell that by our clothes?”

The old man’s face brightened a little, but then a reminder of sorrowful experience clouded it again.

“I’ve never seed no Union soldiers,” said he.  “The rebels come around here dressed all sorts o’ ways, and sometimes they pretend to be Union, jest to lay a snare for we’uns.  They’uns all know I’m Union, but I’m too old t’ do ’em harm.  Hit’s my neighbors they’uns is arter.  But, thank God, they’uns ‘s never kotched any o’ them through me.”

“I tell you we’re genuine, true-blue Union soldiers from Injianny, belong to Rosecrans’s army, and are down here to drive the rebels out o’ the country.  There, you kin see our flag comin’ up the mountain.”

The old man shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked earnestly at the long line of men winding up the mountain-side.

“I kin see nothin’ but a blue flag,” said he, “much the same as some o’ Bragg’s rijimints tote.”

Si looked again, and noticed that only the blue regimental flag was displayed.

“Wait a minnit, I’ll convince him,” said Shorty, and running down the mountain he took the marker from the right guide of the regiment, and presently came back waving it proudly in the sunshine.

The old man’s face brightened like a May day, and then his faded eyes filled with joyful tears as he exclaimed: 

“Yes, thank Almighty God, that’s hit.  That’s the real flag o’ my country.  That’s the flag I fit under with olé Jackson at New Orleans.  I bless God that I’ve lived to see the day that hit’s come back.”

He took the flag in his hands, fondly surveyed its bright folds, and then fervently kissed it.  Then he said to his granddaughter: 

“Nance, call the boys in, that they’uns’s may see thar friends ’ve come at last.”

Nance seemed to need no second bidding.  She sped back to the porch, seized the long tin horn and sent mellow, joyful notes floating far over the billowy hills, until they were caught up by the cliffs and echoed back in subdued melody.

“Don’t be surprised, gentlemen, at what yo’uns ’ll see,” said the old man.

Even while the bugle-like notes were still ringing on the warm air, men began appearing from the most unexpected places.  They were all of the same type, differing only in age from mere boys to middle-aged men.  They were tall, raw-boned and stoop-shouldered, with long, black hair, and tired, sad eyes, which lighted up as they saw the flag and the men around it.  They were attired in rude, home spun clothes, mostly ragged and soiled, and each man carried a gun of some description.

They came in such numbers that Si was startled.  He drew his men together, and looked anxiously back to see how near the regiment had come.

“I done tole yo’uns not t’ be surprised,” said the old man reassuringly; “they’uns ’s all right every one of ’em a true Union man, ready and willin’ t’ die for his country.  The half o’ they’uns hain’t got in yit, but they’ll all come in.”

“Yes, indeed,” said one of the first of them to come in, a pleasant-faced, shapely youth, with the soft down of his first beard scantily fringing his face, and to whom Nancy had sidled up in an unmistakable way.  “We’uns ‘ve bin a-layin’ out in the woods for weeks, dodgin’ olé Bragg’s conscripters and a-waitin’ for yo’uns.  We’uns ’ve bin watchin’ yo’uns all day yisterday, an’ all this mornin’, tryin’ t’ make out who yo’uns rayly wuz.  Sometimes we’uns thought yo’uns wuz Yankees, an’ then agin that yo’uns wuz the tail-end o’ Bragg’s army.  All we’uns ‘s a-gwine t’ jine all yo’uns, an’ fout for the Union.”

“Bully boys right sentiments,” said Shorty enthusiastically.  “There’s room for a lot o’ you in this very regiment, and it’s the best regiment in the army.  Co.  Q’s the best company in the regiment, and it needs 15 or 20 fine young fellers like you to fill up the holes made by Stone River and Tennessee rain and mud.”

“I’ll go ’long with you, Mister Ossifer, if you’ll take me,” said the youth, very shyly and softly to Si, whose appearance seemed to attract him.

“Certainly we’ll take you,” said Si, “if the Surgeon ’ll accept you, and I’ll see that you’re sworn in on the spot.”

“Nancy,” said the youth diffidently to the girl, who had stood by his side holding his hand during the whole conversation, “yo’ done promised yo’d marry me as soon’s the Yankee soldiers done come for sure, and they’uns ’ve done come, millions of ’em.  Looky thar millions of ’em.”

He pointed to the distant hills, every road over which was swarming with legions of blue.

“Yes, Nate,” said the girl, reddening, chewing her bonnet-strings to hide her confusion, and stir ring up the ground with the toe of her shoe, “I reckon I did promise yo’ I’d marry yo’ when the Yankee soldiers done come for sure, and thar does seem t’ be a right smart passel of ’em done come already, with a heapin’ more on the way.  But yo’ ain’t gwine t’ insist on me keepin’ my promise right off, air yo’?”

And she took a bigger bite at her bonnet-strings and dug a deeper hole with the toe of her shoe.

“Yes, indeedy right off jest the minnit I kin find a preacher,” replied Nate, growing bolder and more insistent as he felt his happiness approaching.  “I’m a-gwine off t’ the war with this gentleman’s company (indicating Si with a wave of his disengaged hand), and we must be spliced before I start.  Say, Mister Ossifer (to Si), kin yo’ tell me whar I kin find a preacher?”

Si and Shorty and the rest were taking a deep interest in the affair.  It was so fresh, so genuine, so unconventional that it went straight to all their hearts, and, besides, made a novel incident in their campaign.  They were all on the side of the would-be bridegroom at once, and anxious for his success.  The Adjutant had come up with the order that they should stop where they were, for the regiment would go into camp just below for the day.  So they had full leisure to attend to the matter.  The Tennesseeans took only a modified interest, for the presence of the Union army was a much more engrossing subject, and they preferred to stand and gaze open-eyed and open-mouthed at the astonishing swarms of blue-clad men rather than to pay attention to a commonplace mountain wooing.

“We have a preacher he’s the Chaplain of the regiment,” suggested Si.

“Any sort of a preacher’ll do for me,” said Nate sanguinely, “so long ’s he’s a preacher Hard Shell, Free Will, Campbellite, Winebrennarian, Methodist, Cumberland Presbyterian and kind, so long ’s he’s a regularly-ordained preacher, ’ll do for me.  Won’t hit for you, honey?”

“Granddad’s a Presbyterian,” she said, blushing, “and I’d rather he’d be a Presbyterian.  Better ax granddad.”

Nate hurried over to the grandfather, who was so deeply engrossed in talking politics, the war, and the persécutions the East Tennesseeans had endured at the hands of the rebels with the officers and soldiers gathered around that he did not want to be bothered with such a comparatively unimportant matter as the marriage of a granddaughter.

“Yes, marry her any way you like, so long as you marry her honest and straight,” said he impatiently to Nate.  Then, as Nate turned away, he explained to those about him:  “That’s the 45th grandchild that I’ve had married, and I’m kind o’ gittin used t’ hit, so t’ speak.  Nate and her ‘ve bin keepin’ company and courtin’ ever sense they wuz weaned, an’ bin pesterin’ the life out o’ me for years t’ let ’em git jined.  Sooner hit’s done the better.  As I wuz sayin’, we’uns give 80,000 majority in Tennessee agin Secession, but olé Isham Harris” etc.

“I’ll speak to the Adjutant about it,” said Si, when Nate came back glowing with gladness.

The young Adjutant warmly approved the enlistment proposition, and was electrified by the idea of the marriage.

“I’ll go and talk to the Colonel and the Chaplain about it.  Why, it’ll be no end of fun.  We’ll fix up a wedding-supper for them, have the band serenade them, and send an account of it home to the papers.  You go and get them ready, and I’ll attend to the rest.  Say, I think we’d better have him enlisted, and then married afterward.  That’ll make it a regimental affair.  You take him down to Capt.  McGillicuddy, that he may take him before the Surgeon and have him examined.  Then we’ll regularly enlist him, and he’ll be one of us, and in the bonds of the United States before he is in the bonds of matrimony.  It’ll be the first marriage in the regiment, but not the first one that is ardently desired, by a long shot.”

The Adjutant gave a little sigh, which Si could not help echoing, and Shorty joined in.

“Well, our turns will come, too, boys,” said the Adjutant with a laugh, “when this cruel war is over.”  And he whistled “The Girl I Left Behind Me” as he rode back to camp.

The Surgeon found Nathan Hartburn physically sound, the oath was duly administered to the young recruit, and he made his mark on the enlistment papers, and was pronounced a soldier of the United States, belonging to Co.  Q, 200th Ind.  He had been followed through all these steps by a crowd of his friends, curious to see just what was the method of “jinin’ the Union army,” and when Co.  Q received its new member with cheers and friendly congratulations the others expressed their eagerness to follow his example.

Co.  Q was in a ferment over the wedding, with everybody eager to do something to help make it a grand success, and to fill the hearts of the other companies with envy.  The first and greatest problem was to provide the bridegroom with a uniform in which to be married.  The Quartermaster’s wagons were no one knew exactly where, but certainly a day or more back on the road, and no one had started out on the campaign with any extra clothing.  Shorty, who considered himself directly responsible for the success of the affair, was for awhile in despair.  He was only deterred from stealing a pair of the Colonel’s trousers by the timely thought that it would, after all, be highly improper for a private to be wearing a pair of pantaloons with a gold cord.  Then he resolved to make a sacrifice of himself.  He was the nearest Nate’s proportions of any man in the company, and he had drawn a new pair of trousers just before starting on the march.  They had as yet gotten very slightly soiled.  He went to the spring and laboriously washed them until they were as bright as new, and, after they were dried, insisted on Nate trading pantaloons with him.  A new blouse was more readily found, and as readily contributed by its owner.  Si freely gave up his sole extra shirt, and another donated a pair of reserve shoes.  The Adjutant came in with a McClellan cap.  When the company barber cut Nate’s long hair, and shaved him, he was arrayed in his wedding uniform, and as Si had given him a little drill in holding him self erect, he was as presentable a soldier as could be found in the regiment, and quite as proud of himself as the boys of Co.  Q were of him.  Then an other despairing thought struck Shorty: 

“’Tain’t right,” he communed with Si and the rest, “that the bridegroom should have all the good clothes.  The bride should have the boss togs o’ the two.  If we was only back near Nashville she should have a layout that’d out-rag the Queen o’ Sheby, if it took every cent there was in the company.  But I don’t suppose you could buy a yard o’ kaliker or a stitch o’ finery within 50 miles o’ this clayknob.”

“What we might do,” said Si reflectively, “would be to give her her trowso futuriously, so to speak.  We’ve just bin paid off, and hain’t had no chance to spend our money, so that all the boys has some.  Every one o’ ’em ’ll be glad to give a dollar, which you kin hand her in a little speech, tellin’ her that we intended to present her with her trowso, but circumstances over which we had no control, mainly the distance to a milliner shop, prevented, but we would hereby present her with the means to git it whenever convenient, and she could satisfy herself much better by picking it out her ownself.  You want to recollect that word trowso.  It’s the elegant thing for a woman’s wedding finery, and if you use it you’ll save yourself from mentioning things that you don’t know nothin’ about, and probably oughtn’t to mention.  My sisters learned it to me.  A girl who’d bin at boarding-school learned them.”

“Good idée,” said Shorty, slapping his leg.  “I’ll go right out and collect a dollar from each of the boys.  Say that word over agin, till I git it sure.”

Shorty came back in a little while with his hands full of greenbacks “Every boy ponied right up the moment I spoke to him,” he said.  “And the Captain and Adjutant each gave $5.  She’s got money enough to buy out the best milliner shop in this part o’ Tennessee.”

Next came thoughts of a wedding-supper for the bride’s friends.  The Colonel took the view that the large number of recruits which he expected to gain justified him in ordering the Commissary to issue a liberal quantity of rations.  Two large iron wash-kettles were scoured out one used to make coffee in and the other to boil meat, while there was sugar and hardtack in abundance.  The mountains were covered with royal blooms of rhododendron, and at the Adjutant’s suggestion enough of these were cut to fill every nook and corner of the main room of the house, hiding the rough logs and dark corners with masses of splendid color, much to the astonish ment of the bride, who had never before thought of rhododendrons as a feature of house adornment.

Then, just before 6 o’clock roll-call, Co.  Q, with every man in it cleaned up as for dress-parade, with Nathan Hartburn at the head, supported on either side by Si and Shorty, and flanked by the Adjutant and Chaplain, marched up the hill to the house, led by the fifers and drummers, playing the reveille, “When the Cruel War is Over,” “Yankee Doodle,” and everything else in their limited repertory which they could think as at all appropriate to the occasion.  The rest of the regiment, with most of the officers, followed after.

The Chaplain took his place in front of the rhododendron-filled fireplace.  The bride and groom stood before him, with Si and Shorty in support.  All of Co.  Q crowded into the room, and the rest looked through the windows and doors.  The Chaplain spoke the words which made the young couple man and wife, and handed them a certificate to that effect.  Shorty then advanced, with his hand full of greenbacks, and said: 

“Missis Hartburn:  Co.  Q of the 200th Ind., of which you are now a brevet member, has appointed me to present their congratulations.  We extend to you the right hand of fellership of as fine a crowd o’ soldiers as ever busted caps on any field of battle.  We’re very glad to have your young husband with us.  We’ll take care of him, treat him right, and bring him back to you crowned with the laurels of victory.  You just bet your life we will.  That’s our way o’ doin’ things.  Madam, Co.  Q very much wished to present you with a trou- trou- tro- what is that blamed word, Si?”

“Trowso,” whispered Si-

“with a trowso,” continued Shorty, “but circumstances and about 150 mile o’ mud road over which we have no control prevented.  To show, though, that we really meant business, and ain’t givin’ you no wind, we have collected the skads for a regular 24-carat trow- trous- trows- trou- tro- (blamed the dinged word, what is it, Si?)”

“Trowso,” prompted Si

“for a régler 24-carat trowso which I have the pleasure o’ putting in your lily-white hands, at the same time wishin’ for the company, for you and your husband, all happiness and joy in your married ’life.  No more, from yours truly.”

Shorty’s brow was beaded with perspiration as he concluded this intellectual effort and handed the bride the money, which she accepted, as she had done everything else on that eventful day, as some thing that she was expected to do.  The company applauded as if it had been a speech by Daniel Webster, and then the supper-table was attacked.

Then came pipes, and presently the brigade band came over and serenaded.  A fiddle was produced from somewhere, and a dance started.  Suddenly came the notes of a drum in camp.

“Early for tattoo, ain’t it?” said they, looking inquiringly at one another.

“That’s no ’tattoo,” said Shorty; “that’s the long roll.  Break for camp, everybody.”