A couple of miles beyond the picket guard, the road descends into a dreary swamp. It seems too dreary for any creature to live in; bushes and trees have died, and the tall, spectral trunks stand, like ghosts of a departed forest. Deep holes and fallen trees had made the crossing no easy task in daytime, and I now approached it with some misgivings, and many wishes that we were well over. Tennessee led bravely down the bank, on a trot, crossing the rickety bridge and plunging into the submerged road, without abating his speed. Here Bischoff fell behind. His beautiful Ida had galloped since we turned back, as though running a race; but this was a slough of despond, through which she had to pick her way with care. The instinct of my horse was wonderful. Too dark for me to guide him, I threw the reins on his neck and trusted everything to him. With his head stretched out, he crossed and re-crossed the invisible road, avoiding its dangers, as it seemed to me, by precisely the same path he had picked out by daylight. Several times branches dashed in my face, and once my cap was nearly swept off; but with no other mishaps, I found we were approaching the opposite bank, and soon felt his tread again on firm ground. I stopped for a moment and listened, but could hear nothing of the squadron before, or of Bischoff behind. I was alone with my good horse. Yet, as I reached the top of the next hill, I was greeted with a cheering sound--for from a house in the distance came the yelps of its half dozen dogs, and in a moment the yelp was repeated from the house beyond. I knew then where my men were. At the same time, Tennessee, who had been disposed to linger for Ida, started forward, showing that by sight, or sound, or smell, he recognized his friends ahead, and was greatly disposed to try whether they were fresher than he. The swamp had brought the squadron to a walk, and, for a few moments, to a halt; and it was these few moments of delay that had enabled me to close up the distance between us. As I approached, I was somewhat soothed, to find the men were deserving a very big mark in "_deportment!_" No sound came from the silent column, save the trampling of the horses and the clanking of the sabres. A night march in an enemy's country requires secrecy, and the ordinary recreation of talk and song then has to be laid aside. I was now close upon them, and, stealing up to the rearmost man, I announced myself by the command, "_Column--halt._" The long line of horses stopped. Habit is a strong master. The unexpected command, coming from the rear, and in the darkness, was obeyed as promptly as on parade. There was some surprise, a few questions and explanations, a few minutes' rest (during which Bischoff arrived), a general unslinging of canteens, and a great drinking of water; and then we pushed forward to finish the ten miles which lay between us and the Holly Fork.