“I was going through that very town,” said the officer, “and a fellow, shaved and sheared like a convict, got aboard and sat down in the same seat with me.  As we passed the penitentiary, he turned with a yawn—­and said, in a matter-of-fact way: 

“’That’s where Morgan is kept, isn’t it?” and then he drew out a flask.  I thought he had wonderfully good manners in spite of his looks, and, so help me, if he didn’t wave his hand, bow like a Bayard, and hand it over to me: 

“‘Let’s drink to the hope that Morgan may always be as safe as he is now.’  I drank to his toast with a hearty Amen, and the fellow never cracked a smile.  It was Morgan himself.”

Early in ’64 the order had gone round for negroes to be enrolled as soldiers, and again no rebel felt more outraged than Chadwick Buford.  Wolford, his commander, was dishonorably dismissed from the service for bitter protests and harsh open criticism of the Government, and Chad, himself, felt like tearing off with his own hands the straps which he had won with so much bravery and worn with so much pride.  But the instinct that led him into the Union service kept his lips sealed when his respect for that service, in his own State, was well-nigh gone—­kept him in that State where he thought his duty lay.  There was need of him and thousands more like him.  For, while active war was now over in Kentucky, its brood of evils was still thickening.  Every county in the State was ravaged by a guerilla band—­and the ranks of these marauders began to be swelled by Confederates, particularly in the mountains and in the hills that skirt them.  Banks, trains, public vaults, stores, were robbed right and left, and murder and revenge were of daily occurrence.  Daws Dillon was an open terror both in the mountains and in the Bluegrass.  Hitherto the bands had been Union and Confederate but now, more and more, men who had been rebels joined them.  And Chad Buford could understand.  For, many a rebel soldier—­“hopeless now for his cause,” as Richard Hunt was wont to say, “fighting from pride, bereft of sympathy, aid, and encouragement that he once received, and compelled to wring existence from his own countrymen; a cavalryman on some out-post department, perhaps, without rations, fluttering with rags; shod, if shod at all, with shoes that sucked in rain and cold; sleeping at night under the blanket that kept his saddle by day from his sore-backed horse; paid, if paid at all, with waste paper; hardened into recklessness by war—­many a rebel soldier thus became a guerrilla—­consoling himself, perhaps, with the thought that his desertion was not to the enemy.”