and unlimbered three of them between Shiloh Church and the left flank of the Seventieth Ohio. This evolution was gallantly performed. The first shot from this battery, directed against the enemy on the right opposite, drew the fire of a Confederate battery and the old log church came in for a share of its compliments. This duel had not lasted more than ten minutes when a Confederate shell struck a caisson in our battery and an explosion took place, which made things in that spot exceedingly uncomfortable. The captain was killed, and his lieutenant, thinking he had done his duty, and, doubtless, satisfied in his own mind that the war was over so far as he was concerned, limbered up his remaining pieces, and, with such horses as he had, galloped to the rear and was not seen at any other time, I believe, during the two days’ engagement. By this time the enemy was pressing closely on my left flank, and Shiloh Church, with its ancient logs, was no longer a desirable place for military observation. I hurried over to my father’s camp, taking advantage of such friendly trees as presented themselves on the line of my movement, and there found a state of disorder. The tents were pretty well ripped with shells and bullets, and wounded men were being carried past me to the rear. As I stood there, debating in my mind whether to join my father’s command or continue my independent action, three men approached, carrying a sorely wounded officer in a blanket. They called me to assist them, and as my place really was with the hospital corps, being a non-combatant musician, I complied with their request. We carried the poor fellow some distance to the rear, through a thick wood, and found there a scene of disorder amounting to panic. Men were flying in every direction, commissary wagons were struggling through the underbrush, and the roads were packed with fugitives and baggage trains, trying to carry off the impedimenta of the army. Finding a comparatively empty wagon, we placed our wounded officer inside, and then, left at liberty, I started on down toward the river. I had not proceeded more than a mile when I encountered a brigade of Illinois troops, drawn up in battle array, apparently waiting for orders. It was General McArthur’s Highland Brigade, the members of which wore Scotch caps, and I must say that a handsomer body of troops I never saw. These fellows had been at Fort Donelson, and they counted themselves as veterans. They had their regimental band with them, their flags were all unfurled, and they were really dancing impatiently to the music of the battle in front of them. As I sauntered by a chipper young lieutenant, sword in hand, stopped me and said: “Where do you belong?” “I belong to Ohio,” was my reply.