It is three in the morning, and the men have left their cavalry couches, and are silently rolling their blankets and saddling their horses. We leave the field as we entered it, replacing the fence and turning toward Buena Vista. How surprised the owner will be when, harvesting his corn, he stumbles on the traces of our mysterious bivouac. The country still sleeps in the chill, silent moonlight, and very chilly and silent are we; but by and by the day breaks, and, as the sun rises, we descend into the dark, damp valley of the Obion. The direction of our march is reversed--so is the hour, and so are all the circumstances, yet we feel awed by the memories of last May. Every fallen tree or muddy hollow has a tale--here this man's horse was shot, here another was wounded, and here a third narrowly escaped. On the bank of this little stream, the man who leads was taken prisoner; over it Tennessee made an unequalled jump; in this mud hole, five horses went down, and further on, near the bridge, our major fell. Looking at it calmly and critically, it seems even worse than it did then, and I wonder how one of us escaped. We reach the bridge; the thickened foliage leaves the valley less open, yet I can, in fancy, see again that long column bearing down upon us. What a strong position it is! how easily we could have held it, had we been armed like the enemy! And here are the house and the barn-yard, and Bischoff shows us the very place where the little black horse made his famous leap; and Mr. Lockridge comes out and points to some graves, and his wife repeats some dying words. They beg us to stay to breakfast, and say that though they suffered last spring, they have been blessed with an abundant harvest; but we do not feel like breakfasting there now, and pass on to the houses where the flags were waved, and where the welcome is worthy of the flag. A long day has this been for us--sultry and hot--the streams dried up--the wells a hundred feet deep--and our horses have suffered much. We are still seven miles from Como, when two mounted men are seen behind us. "Bring those men in, sergeant." The sergeant wheels about and soon returns with them. "I must trouble you to ride with us awhile, gentlemen," I say; "I wish to talk with you." "We are going to Cottage Grove," says one of the men; "it is seven miles off, and we have ridden a long distance to-day: I hope you won't take us far." "I will see about it," I say; and we ride on. One--two--three miles; it is no joke to the men, they plead their loyalty, and give their names and proffer their honor. The answer they get is, "I am sorry for you--I know it's hard; but I cannot let you go." "We've been up to old-man Gibbs', near Dresden." "A tall dark man, who sometimes rides a white mule?" "No, that's his son. Now you know the kind of folks we've been among, maybe you'll let us go." "I am sorry for you--I know it's hard; but I cannot let you go." Four--five--six miles, and they ask: