My anxiety to reach the regiment was intense. Upon inquiry I heard of a bridle path leading over the mountain and along the bank of the river. By starting early and riding hard, one might get through in a day, but it was the path of danger. The guns of the Confederates commanded this road, and some of our men had been killed, others wounded and captured, who tried it. I determined to make the effort. The Colonel commanding the post, in response to my earnest appeal, loaned me two horses and an orderly, and we started at the first peep of day. Keel, too greatly disabled to ride a horse, was to go by the wagon road, taking the baggage of both. He evinced no reluctance when he found that as companions in the same wagon he was to have two estimable women of the Christian Commission, who, with supplies for the sick and wounded, were bound to Chattanooga upon their heaven inspired mission. Realizing that my route was hazardous, I put on my oldest uniform, stripped myself of all valuables, packing them carefully in the trunk that contained all of my earthly possessions. Determined that my beloved pistols should not fall into the hands of the enemy, I lodged them securely in my trunk, taking in their stead a pair of common holster revolvers. The orderly and I rode through without mishap, receiving no shot and seeing but few of the enemy. Arrived at regimental headquarters, I found all well, and received a welcome home that thrilled me. I waited, somewhat impatiently, for the disabled Captain to arrive with the baggage so greatly needed. The days passed away and gave no sign of him until the fifth after my arrival, when a sorry figure rode to the front of my tent. Seated upon a mule that had upon him parts of wagon harness, was the Captain, a woful figure, with rueful countenance. Don Quixote appeared not so disconsolate even after his battle with the knights of the windmill. We would have laughed aloud at his sorry plight had his aspect not been so serious. “For God’s sake, food and drink!” he cried. Being properly refreshed, he told his tale of woe. The train of wagons was proceeding slowly along the weary road, when sharp firing at its front evidenced an attack. Wheeler’s cavalry had crossed the river and was on one of the raids in our rear that made the name of General Joe Wheeler one with which to scare teamsters and worry commanders.