General Leggett sent for me and told me what he wanted, and asked me if I was willing to undertake the job. It was the first opportunity that I had ever had of working as a spy, and I had for a long time been anxious to try my hand at it, and I felt certain that I could do the Government more good in that way than in any other. It was my time to strike, and I determined to improve it. I told General Leggett that I was willing to try, and would do the best that I could, and if I got back safe, "all right;" if not, my fate would be no worse than that of others before me. I returned to my quarters and made the necessary arrangements, and the next morning, at daylight, I started out on the road to Salem, disguised as a Confederate soldier belonging to infantry. The day was clear and pleasant, and a recent shower had laid the dust and cooled the air, and made it much pleasanter traveling than is apt to be the case in that country in the month of July. I was on foot, and the coolness of the atmosphere very much facilitated my progress. I was not interrupted in my progress until I had gone about eight miles, when I observed, as I approached a planter's house, a negro woman in the yard, engaged in churning. Being somewhat fond of buttermilk, I resolved to pay the inmates of the house a visit. As I approached the house, a lady came to the door, and, observing my Confederate uniform, seemed pleased to see me, and asked me to walk in and be seated, to which I complied. "Where have you been?" she inquired. "I have been out to the Yankee pickets, and I had a fight with them last night and killed three of the d----d Yankees. They killed my horse for me in the fight, and I am going back to Salem to get another that I left there. I have walked until I am tired. Seeing the woman churning in the yard, I thought I would stop and rest myself, and see if you would have the kindness to give me a drink of buttermilk." "I am glad you did. You shall have all the buttermilk you want. You are not a-gwine to _walk_ to Salem, are you?" "Yes. I've got another horse there, and I don't like to trouble any body for the use of one." "Well, now, you are not a-gwine to walk down thar; we've got heaps o' horses and mules, and you shall have one to ride. Bob! Bob!" calling to a darky in the yard, "you run right quick to the cotton-gin and fetch your master." While Bob went on a double-quick for his master, the lady ordered me some buttermilk and wheat biscuit. While I was eating, the planter came in. "Lord bless you, John!" exclaimed the lady, as her husband entered, "here is one of _our soldiers_, and he has had a fight with the Yankee pickets and has killed three of them! He says he's gwine to walk to Salem after another hoss. I tell him that he's not a-gwine to walk when we've got heaps o' mules! I think any of our soldiers that has killed _three Yankees_ is entitled to a mule to ride!"