At my captor’s house that evening there was a reception, attended by the elite of the whole vicinity.  A Yankee officer in full fig—­minus only the boots, which could not be got on to his swollen feet—­was something worth seeing, and those who came to scoff remained to stare.  What most interested them, I think, was my eating—­an entertainment that was prolonged to a late hour.  They were a trifle disappointed by the absence of horns, hoof and tail, but bore their chagrin with good-natured fortitude.  Among my visitors was a charming young woman from the plantation where we had met the foe the day before—­the same lady whom I had suspected of an intention to reveal my hiding-place.  She had had no such design; she had run over to the group of horsemen to learn if her father had been hurt—­by whom, I should like to know.  No restraint was put upon me; my captor even left me with the women and children and went off for instructions as to what disposition he should make of me.  Altogether the reception was “a pronounced success,” though it is to be regretted that the guest of the evening had the incivility to fall dead asleep in the midst of the festivities, and was put to bed by sympathetic and, he has reason to believe, fair hands.

The next morning I was started off to the rear in custody of two mounted men, heavily armed.  They had another prisoner, picked up in some raid beyond the river.  He was a most offensive brute—­a foreigner of some mongrel sort, with just sufficient command of our tongue to show that he could not control his own.  We traveled all day, meeting occasional small bodies of cavalrymen, by whom, with one exception—­a Texan officer—­was civilly treated.  My guards said, however, that if we should chance to meet Jeff Gatewood he would probably take me from them and hang me to the nearest tree; and once or twice, hearing horsemen approach, they directed me to stand aside, concealed in the brush, one of them remaining near by to keep an eye on me, the other going forward with my fellow-prisoner, for whose neck they seemed to have less tenderness, and whom I heartily wished well hanged.

Jeff Gatewood was a “guerrilla” chief of local notoriety, who was a greater terror to his friends than to his other foes.  My guards related almost incredible tales of his cruelties and infamies.  By their account it was into his camp that I had blundered on Sunday night.

We put up for the night at a farmhouse, having gone not more than fifteen miles, owing to the condition of my feet.  Here we got a bite of supper and were permitted to lie before the fire.  My fellow-prisoner took off his boots and was soon sound asleep.  I took off nothing and, despite exhaustion, remained equally sound awake.  One of the guards also removed his footgear and outer clothing, placed his weapons under his neck and slept the sleep of innocence; the other sat in the chimney corner on watch.  The house was a double log cabin, with an open space between the two parts, roofed over—­a common type of habitation in that region.  The room we were in had its entrance in this open space, the fireplace opposite, at the end.  Beside the door was a bed, occupied by the old man of the house and his wife.  It was partly curtained off from the room.