“Bully for old Abe,” says General Forrest, after hearing the report. “Major, tell him to hold what he’s got, and I will be with him as soon as I see General Hood and get the infantry.” He went off on the jump. We were standing then on the side of the pike. The major was dismounted, stooping down writing on his knee, and I was holding his horse. Out of the gloom and smoke came the sound of drum and fife. I looked back down the pike and saw a long line of bayonets coming at a double-quick with “trailing arms.” They were not yelling, their line as straight as a string, and perfect time. Though they were leaving a broad trail of dead behind, they kept the ranks closed up. From the stern, set face and fierce light of battle in their eyes, I could see they meant business. In front of them was our old fifer, Casey, and his Arkansas chum, playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” They had two kettle-drums and a bass. They passed within ten feet of me. I yelled at old Casey as he recognized me, and nodded as he flashed past. I knew then that was our old infantry brigade. I saw General Scott further down the line. It enthused me so to see our comrades going in so gallantly that I yelled to beat the band. My horse thought hell had broken loose somewhere and wanted to go, too. The Yankees were sending a perfect storm of shot and shell down the pike. Two lines of breastworks, two solid sheets of flame above them, the batteries looked like the whole top of the hill was ablaze, but into that hell our old boys charged, over the first line like a flash, and a race with the Yankees for the second line. I watched old Casey. All the musicians were killed or wounded before they reached the second line, but Casey, above the roar of the guns and the bursting of shells, still marched, playing on, and I could hear that old fife screaming “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” At last, for one short moment, I saw old Casey’s tall, slim form mount the second line of Yankee works, and then “The Girl I Left Behind Me” came to a sudden end. His music suddenly ceased. A Yankee knocked him over the head with a gun. Casey was captured and sent to prison. I have never seen him since, but the last I heard of him he was living in Cadiz, Ky. I was called back to my own business by a gentle tap on my knee and heard the major say, with a very superior smile: “You seem to be a little excited.” “Don’t get that way often, Major,” I replied, “that’s our old infantry brigade. Look how they go in.” He looked across my horse, and I could see his face light up. “By God, those are gallant fellows,” he says. “Yes, old Abe trained them,” was my answer. The major gave me the dispatch, and I was obliged to leave at once. Hood would not give Forrest the infantry nor allow him to flank and follow up our victory.