Up to this time the pursuit seemed feeble, and the Confederates were surprised that the victorious Federals made no more of their advantage.  Nor is it yet understood why the pursuit was not pressed.  A rapid and persistent pursuit would have created a complete rout of the now broken, weary, and dispirited Rebels.  Two hours more of such fighting as Buell’s fresh men could have made, would have demoralized and destroyed Beauregard’s army.  For some reason this was not done, and night closed the battle.

About five o’clock I requested permission to ride on toward Corinth, as I was faint and weary, and, from the pain in my side and knee, would not be able to keep the saddle much longer.  This was granted, and I made a detour from the road on which the army was retreating, that I might travel faster and get ahead of the main body.  In this ride of twelve miles alongside of the routed army, I saw more of human agony and woe than I trust I will ever again be called on to witness.  The retreating host wound along a narrow and almost impassable road, extending some seven or eight miles in length.  Here was a long line of wagons loaded with wounded, piled in like bags of grain, groaning and cursing, while the mules plunged on in mud and water belly-deep, the water sometimes coming into the wagons.  Next came a straggling regiment of infantry pressing on past the train of wagons, then a stretcher borne upon the shoulders of four men, carrying a wounded officer, then soldiers staggering along, with an arm broken and hanging down, or other fearful wounds which were enough to destroy life.  And to add to the horrors of the scene, the elements of heaven marshaled their forces,—­a fitting accompaniment of the tempest of human desolation and passion which was raging.  A cold, drizzling rain commenced about nightfall, and soon came harder and faster, then turned to pitiless blinding hail.  This storm raged with unrelenting violence for three hours.  I passed long wagon trains filled with wounded and dying soldiers, without even a blanket to shield them from the driving sleet and hail, which fell in stones as large as partridge eggs, until it lay on the ground two inches deep.

Some three hundred men died during that awful retreat, and their bodies were thrown out to make room for others who, although wounded, had struggled on through the storm, hoping to find shelter, rest, and medical care.

By eight o’clock at night I had passed the whole retreating column, and was now in advance, hoping to reach Corinth, still four miles ahead.  But my powers of endurance, though remarkable, were exhausted, and I dismounted at a deserted cabin by the wayside, scarce able to drag myself to the doorway.  Here a surgeon was tending some wounded men who had been sent off the field at an early hour of the first day.  To his question, “Are you wounded?” I replied that my wound was slight, and that I needed refreshment and sleep more than surgical aid.  Procuring two hard crackers and a cup of rye Coffee, I made a better meal than I had eaten in three days, and then lay down in a vacant room and slept.