Joe was not quite seventeen years old. He could ride anything that happened to possess a back. He therefore had a great love for his horse--the noblest one in the battery. During the preliminary skirmish in advance of Pocotaligo, on that terrible 22d of October, 1862, his gun detachment was cut to pieces in a fearful way, until he had to work his piece with three men, serving as a cannoneer himself. When we retired from the skirmish line at Yemassee to Pocotaligo proper, and it was obvious that we must fight enormous odds in order to prevent the enemy from crossing the causeway we were defending, I suggested to Joe that he dismount, as the rest of us had done, and take to a tree. Joe resented the suggestion with the remark: “My place is on horseback. I’m a sergeant.” Two minutes later a cannon-ball carried away his horse’s tail. Five seconds afterwards another cannon-ball carried off the beast’s left forefoot. Feeling that the horse was sinking under him, Joe dismounted to see what the damage had been. As he stooped to look at the dismembered foot, still another cannon-ball passed just over his head, split his saddle, and broke the poor animal’s back. Thereupon Joe turned, presented his pistol at the horse’s head, averted his eyes and fired. Then he took a horse out of the battery and mounted him, remarking: “I still contend that as a sergeant my place is on horseback.” The boy was crying, but none of us made remark upon the incongruity. Joe was mentioned in general orders for his gallantry that day, but the fact had no reference to this matter of the horse. [Illustration: A GOOD-BYE TO A FRIEND.] A RATHER BAD NIGHT We were living in the deserted village. That is to say, our battery of light artillery was stationed at Bluffton, South Carolina. At ordinary times Bluffton had a population of about three thousand souls. At the time of which I write it had no population at all. It was a town built upon a high bluff overlooking an arm of the sea, or more properly a great bay, broken by multitudinous islands into various inlets. Hilton Head lay within sight, twelve miles away, and all the waters of the great island-studded bay were navigable. Bluffton never had any business to do. It had no shops, no factories, no anything but planters’ residences. Its houses were all elegant and all comfortable. Its streets were shaded by great spreading trees, not planted in symmetrical rows, but growing wherever they pleased, in the midst of the thoroughfares. Bluffton was exposed to the direct assault of gun-boats or expeditions of any sort. So, early in the war, its entire population left and went to points in the interior. At the time I write of, in 1863, there was not a soul in the town except the men of the battery to which I belonged. Our captain was commandant of outposts. I was adjutant of the same.