THE BATTLE OF MIDDLE CREEK.

Col.  Garfield has gained a great advantage, but he knows that it must be followed up.  His ambition is not satisfied.  He means to force a fight with Marshall, despite the odds.

He has been reinforced, but Craven’s men are completely exhausted by their long and toilsome march.  They are hardly able to drag one foot after the other.  Garfield knows this, but he explains to his men what he proposes to do.  He orders those who have strength to come forward.  Of the men under his immediate command seven hundred obey the summons.  Of Craven’s weary followers four hundred heroic men volunteer to accompany him.

So at noon of the 9th, with eleven hundred men, Garfield sets out for Prestonburg, sending all his available cavalry to follow the line of the enemy’s retreat.  At nine o’clock that night, after a march of eighteen miles, he reaches the mouth of Abbott’s Creek with his eleven hundred men.  He hears that his opponent is encamped three miles higher up on the same stream.  He sends an order back to Lieutenant-Colonel Sheldon, who is left in command at Paintville, to bring up every available man with all possible dispatch, for he intends to force a battle in the morning.

He requires to know the disposition of Marshall’s forces, and here the gallant scout, John Jordan, again is of service to him.  While a dozen Confederates were grinding at a mill, they were surprised by as many Union men, who, taking them by surprise, captured their corn, and made them prisoners.  Jordan eyed the miller with a critical eye, and a plan was instantly formed.  The miller was a tall, gaunt man, and his clothes would fit the scout.  He takes a fancy to exchange raiment with the miller.  Then, smearing his face with meal, he goes back to the Confederate camp in a new character.  Even if he is surprised he will escape suspicion, for the miller is a pronounced disunionist, and he looks his very image.

His midnight ramble enabled him to learn precisely what it was important for Garfield to know.  He found out their exact position, and that they had laid an ambuscade for the Union commander.  They were waiting for him, strongly posted on a semicircular hill at the forks of Middle Creek, on both sides of the road, with cannon commanding its whole length, hidden by the trees and underbrush.

“They think they’ve got you, general,” said Jordan.  “They’re waitin’ for you as a cat waits for a mouse.”

Upon a steep ridge called Abbott’s Hill, the Union soldiers, tired and sleepy, had thrown themselves upon the wet ground.  There was a dense fog, shutting out the moon and stars, and shrouding the lonely mountain in darkness.  The rain was driven in blinding gusts into the faces of the shivering men, and tired as they were they hailed with joy the coming of morning.  For more than one brave man it was destined to be his last day upon earth.

At four o’clock they started on their march.  About daybreak, while rounding a hill, their advance guard was charged upon by a body of Confederate horsemen.  In return Garfield gave the Confederates a volley, that sent them reeling up the valley.