We arrived at this pretty little town yesterday, so effecting a junction with Schofield, who got in with the 3d Corps the day before.  I am writing at General Schofield’s headquarters.  There was a bit of a battle on Tuesday at Bentonville, and we have come hither in smoke, as usual.  But this time we thank Heaven that it is not the smoke of burning homes, —­only some resin the “Johnnies” set on fire before they left.

I must close.  General Sherman has just sent for me.

On board despatch boat “Martin.” 
At sea, March 25, 1865.

Dear mother:  A most curious thing has happened.  But I may as well begin at the beginning.  When I stopped writing last evening at the summons of the General, I was about to tell you something of the battle of Bentonville on Tuesday last.  Mower charged through as bad a piece of wood and swamp as I ever saw, and got within one hundred yards of Johnston himself, who was at the bridge across Mill Creek.  Of course we did not know this at the time, and learned it from prisoners.

As I have written you, I have been under fire very little since coming to the staff.  When the battle opened, however, I saw that if I stayed with the General (who was then behind the reserves) I would see little or nothing; I went ahead “to get information” beyond the line of battle into the woods.  I did not find these favorable to landscape views, and just as I was turning my horse back again I caught sight of a commotion some distance to my right.  The Rebel skirmish line had fallen back just that instant, two of our skirmishers were grappling with a third man, who was fighting desperately.  It struck me as singular that the fellow was not in gray, but had on some sort of dark clothes.

I could not reach them in the swamp on horseback, and was in the act of dismounting when the man fell, and then they set out to carry him to the rear, still farther to my right, beyond the swamp.  I shouted, and one of the skirmishers came up.  I asked him what the matter was.

“We’ve got a spy, sir,” he said excitedly.

“A spy!  Here?”

“Yes, Major.  He was hid in the thicket yonder, lying flat on his face.  He reckoned that our boys would run right over him and that he’d get into our lines that way.  Tim Foley stumbled on him, and he put up as good a fight with his fists as any man I ever saw.”

Just then a regiment swept past us.  That night I told the General, who sent over to the headquarters of the 17th Corps to inquire.  The word came back that the man’s name was Addison, and he claimed to be a Union sympathizer who owned a plantation near by.  He declared that he had been conscripted by the Rebels, wounded, sent back home, and was now about to be pressed in again.  He had taken this method of escaping to our lines.  It was a common story enough, but General Mower added in his message that he thought the story fishy.  This was because