's escort and body-guard had encamped around us, and during the
night the teams and much of the field cannon fell back. I obtained
shelter and meals from Quartermaster Le Duke of Iowa, whose canvas was
pitched a mile or more below, and as I tossed through the watches I
heard the splashing of water in the river beneath, where the tired
soldiers were washing away the powder of the battle.

In the morning I retraced to head-quarters, and vainly endeavored to
learn something as to the means of going down the river. Commanders are
always anxious to grant correspondents passes after a victory; but they
wish to defer the unwelcome publication of a defeat. I was advised by
Quartermaster-General Van Vliet, however, to proceed to Harrison's Bar,
and, as I passed thither, the last day's encounters--those of "Malvern
Hills"--occurred. The scenes along the way were reiterations of terrors
already described,--creaking ambulances, staggering foot soldiers,
profane wagoners, skulking officers and privates, officious Provost
guards, defiles, pools and steeps packed with teams and cannon, wayside
houses beset with begging, gossiping, or malicious soldiers, and wavy
fields of wheat and rye thrown open to man and beast. I was amused at
one point, to see some soldiers attack a beehive that they might seize
the honey. But the insects fastened themselves upon some of the
marauders, and after indescribable cursing and struggling, the bright
nectar and comb were relinquished by the toilers, and the ravishers
gorged upon sweetness.

Harrison's Bar is simply a long wharf, extending into the river, close
by the famous mansion, where William Henry Harrison, a President of the
United States, was born, and where, for two centuries, the scions of a
fine old Virginia family have made their homestead. The house had now
become a hospital, and the wounded were being conveyed to the pier,
whence they were delivered over to some Sanitary steamers, for passage
to Northern cities. I tied my horse to the spokes of a wagon-wheel, and
asked a soldier to watch him, while I repaired to the quay. A half
drunken officer was guarding the wharf with a squad of men, and he
denied me admittance, at first, but when I had said something in
adulation of his regiment--a trick common to correspondents--he passed
me readily. The ocean steamer _Daniel Webster_ was about being cast
adrift when I stepped on board, and Colonel Ingalls, Quartermaster in
charge, who freely gave me