vil authorities of the Confederacy rested
their hopes of success, after the campaign of 1864 fully opened, I am
unable to say; but their commanders in the field, whose rank and
position enabled them to estimate the situation, fought simply to afford
statesmanship an opportunity to mitigate the sorrows of inevitable
defeat.

A grand old oak, on the east bank of the Black River, the lower Washita,
protected my couch; and in the morning, with two guides, the faithful
Tom following, I threaded my way through swamp and jungle to the
Mississippi, which was reached at sunset. A light canoe was concealed
some distance from the river bank, and after the short twilight faded
into night this was borne on the shoulders of the guides, and launched.
One of the guides embarked to paddle, and Tom and I followed, each
leading a horse. A gunboat was lying in the river a short distance
below, and even the horses seemed to understand the importance of
silence, swimming quietly alongside of our frail craft. The eastern
shore reached, we stopped for a time to rub and rest the cattle,
exhausted by long-continued exertion in the water; then pushed on to
Woodville, some five and twenty miles east. This, the chief town of
Wilkison county, Mississippi, was in telegraphic communication with
Richmond, and I reported my arrival to the war office. An answer came,
directing me to take command of the department of Alabama, Mississippi,
etc., with the information that President Davis would shortly leave
Richmond to meet me at Montgomery, Alabama. While awaiting telegram, I
learned of the fall of Atlanta and the forts at the entrance of Mobile
Bay. My predecessor in the department to the command of which
telegraphic orders had just assigned me was General Bishop Polk, to whom
I accord all his titles; for in him, after a sleep of several
centuries, was awakened the church militant. Before he joined Johnston
in northern Georgia, Polk's headquarters were at Meridian, near the
eastern boundary of Mississippi, where the Mobile and Ohio Railway,
running north, is crossed by the Vicksburg, Jackson, and Selma line,
running east. To this point I at once proceeded, _via_ Jackson, more
than a hundred miles northeast of Woodville. Grierson's and other
"raids," in the past summer, had broken the New Orleans and Jackson
Railway, so that I rode the distance to the latter place. It was in
September, and the fierce heat was trying to man and beast. The open
pine forests