He was an Irishman by birth, and a blacksmith by trade, but gave up his bellows and tongs to “follow the feather” of his gallant countryman, Gen. Pat Cleburne, in the Confederate Army, and became a gunner in a battery. In many of his characteristics Mike was strikingly like his great captain. Though possessed of a rich vein of Irish wit and humor he did not have that volatile, bubbling over-flow of spirits so natural to his people; on the contrary, he was quiet and retiring in his disposition, even to apparent timidity. His only form of dissipation was tobacco. I well remember his dirty little cob pipe, black with age and tobacco, with a stem not three inches long, of the same color, and from the same causes. Every old soldier who saw much active service in the field, in thinking of the close places he has passed through, will recall vividly the sunburnt face and form of some comrade, friend or acquaintance, conspicuous for his courage, brave where all were brave, but he the bravest of them all. In this light dear old lion-hearted Mike always appears to me, when memory harks back to the stirring scenes of forty odd years ago. With the courage of a game-cock, the modesty of a woman, and a sunny temperament, he was indeed a lovable companion, and when by your side in action, made you feel as if you had two right arms and a double pair of eyes. It is not, however, to speak of his courage that I write, but of some ludicrous incidents that happened to him after he “jined the cavalry.” [Illustration: BEN M. HORD.] Mike was torn nearly in two by a canister shot the second day at Shiloh, while his battery was engaged with one of the enemy’s, and as soon as he was able to stand the journey, his surgeon sent him to his home in Helena, Ark., to die, as he thought, but which Mike, with an Irishman’s perversity, refused to do, and which he explained to me afterwards, in a half apologetic tone for not doing, that the shot really didn’t damage his “in’ards.” It, however, incapacitated him for service in the infantry, and as the Federal forces by that time had the river as far down as Vicksburg, he could not well get back to his old battery, so he reluctantly joined the cavalry. I say reluctantly, because while he knew every bone and nerve in a horse’s foot, and was perfectly at home when he had that article between his knees tacking on a shoe, put him on a horse’s back and he was as helpless as a new born babe. I doubt if he was ever on a horse half a dozen times in his life, until he joined Capt. Rufe Anderson’s company of scouts of Colonel Dobbins’ regiment, Walker’s Brigade of Arkansas Cavalry, of which I was also a member at that time. Seeing him one day, shortly after he had joined, hesitate on the bank of a little stream, as if debating with himself which would be wiser, to attempt to ride across or to get down and wade and lead his horse, I called out to him: “Grip him with your knees, Mike, and your back will keep dry.”