The valley we had to cross was about four hundred yards wide, and not a tree or bush in the valley. The road in front of us was dusty, and while we stood there we heard in the distance the rattle of sabers and the galloping of rebel cavalry. We stood motionless as they passed by, and the dust from the horses’ hoofs came up in the bushes and settled on our shoulders. What a time it was for us! It seemed that we were to cross the “Valley and shadow of death.” When the rebel cavalry had passed, I cut off twenty-five men and said, “Now, boys, go!” and they did go. They crossed that valley like wild cattle. When I thought they were safely over, I cut off twenty-five more men, and they also landed safely. I waited awhile, and we could hear the rebel cavalry coming back. They passed down again, so we waited about ten minutes and then I said, “Boys, now follow me!” and we all crossed in safety and were at the foot of Cumberland Mountain, which was rough, steep, rocky and pathless. Every man had to pick his way until we nearly reached the top. As we crossed the valley, the air was filled with the stench of the decaying bodies of the men who had been killed a few days before. No one could venture to remove or bury them. I understood afterward that they attempted to cross in the daytime, and were killed. When we reached the top of Cumberland Mountain we came to what was called Bailes’ Meadow, a name and place familiar to nearly every “pilot” and man who crossed the mountain. The boys were worn out, mostly all barefooted and nearly naked from crawling through bushes and briar thickets. Some of them, when we reached the top of the mountain, looked back into the valley of East Tennessee and said, “Farewell to rebellion;” and they looked North and said, “I can see the Promised Land!” They were happy, but they had been so long hiding in the woods that they would only speak in whispers, and it was a long time before they could break themselves from the habit. You could trail them by the blood from their feet, but like brave men they marched along without a murmur. James H. Randolph, of Newport, Tennessee, was with us. I was sorry for him as well as the others. His shoes were entirely worn out, and his feet were bleeding. I can remember the circumstances as distinctly as though it were but a few days ago. He looked at me and said, “Bob, when we get back to Tennessee we will give them H—, and rub it in!” He was mad, worn out, and nearly starved to death; but we were out of danger and began to realize that we were free once more.