to notice in the edge of the
thicket, and only a few rods in my front, a big, heavy log, which was
lying parallel to our line, and would afford splendid protection.
Thereupon I made a rush, and dropped behind this log. It was apparently
a rail-cut, and had been left lying on the ground. A little fellow of
Co. H, named John Fox, a year or two my junior, saw me rush for this
log, he followed me, and dropped down behind it also. He had hardly
done this when he quickly called to me--"Look out, Stillwell! You'll
get shot!" I hardly understood just what caused his remark, but
instinctively ducked behind the log, and at that instant "whis-sh" went
a bullet from the front through the upper bark of the log, right
opposite where my breast was a second or two before, scattering
worm-dust and fragments of bark over my neck and shoulders. "I seed him
a-takin' aim," dryly remarked little Fox. "Where is he?" I quickly
inquired. "Right yander," answered Fox, indicating the place by
pointing. I looked and saw the fellow--he was a grown man, in a faded
gray uniform, but before I could complete my hasty preparations to
return his compliment he disappeared in the jungle of cedar.

An incident will now be described, the result of which was very
mortifying to me at the time, and which, to this day, I have never been
able to understand, or account for. We had passed through the cedar
woods before mentioned, and entered another old cotton field. And right
in the hither edge of that field we came plump on a Confederate cavalry
vedette, seated on his horse. The man had possibly been on duty all the
previous night, and perhaps was now dozing in his saddle, or he never
would have stayed for us to slip up on him as we did. But if asleep, he
waked up promptly at this stage of the proceedings. All along our line
the boys began firing at him, yelling as they did so. The moment I saw
him, I said to myself, with an exultant thrill, "You're my game." He
was a big fellow, broad across the back, wearing a wool hat, a gray
jacket, and butternut trousers. My gun was loaded, I was all ready, and
what followed didn't consume much more than two seconds of time. I
threw my gun to my shoulder, let the muzzle sink until I saw through
the front and rear sights the center of that broad back--and then
pulled the trigger. Porting my musket, I looked eagerly to the front,
absolutely confident that my vision would rest on the horse flying
riderless across the field, an