On the bluffs above the river is a sight that may well make our cheeks tingle. There are not less than five thousand skulkers lining the banks! Ask them why they don't go to their places in the line: "Oh! our regiment is all cut to pieces." "Why don't you go to where it is forming again?" "I can't find it," and the hulk looks as if that would be the very last thing he would want to do. Officers are around among them, trying to hunt up their men, storming, coaxing, commanding--cursing I am afraid. One strange fellow--a Major, if I remember aright--is making a sort of elevated, superfine Fourth of July speech to everybody that will listen to him. He means well, certainly: "Men of Kentucky, of Illinois, of Ohio, of Iowa, of Indiana, I implore you, I beg of you, come up now. Help us through two hours more. By all that you hold dear, by the homes you hope to defend, by the flag you love, by the States you honor, by all our love of country, by all your hatred of treason, I conjure you, come up and do your duty, now!" And so on for quantity. "That feller's a good speaker," was the only response I heard, and the fellow who gave it nestled more snugly behind his tree as he spoke. I knew well enough the nature of the skulking animal in an army during a battle. I had seen their performances before, but never on so large a scale, never with such an utter sickness of heart while I look, as now. Still, I do not believe there was very much more than the average percentage. It was a big army, and the runaways all sought the landing. Looking across the Tennessee we see a body of cavalry, awaiting the transportation over. They are said to be Buell's advance, yet they have been there an hour or two alone. But suddenly there is a rustle among the runaways. It is! It is! You see the gleaming of the gun-barrels, you catch amid the leaves and undergrowth down the opposite side of the river, glimpses of the steady, swinging tramp of trained soldiers. A Division of Buell's army is here! And the men who have left their regiments on the field send up three cheers for Buell. They cheering! May it parch their throats, as if they had been breathing the simoon!