remarks
closing with an epithet concerning our maternal ancestors which, in the
words of Colonel Carter of Cartersville, was "vehy gallin', suh." But,
as said by the French soldier, old Peter, in "The Chronicles of the
Drum,"

"Cheer up!'tis no use to be glum, boys,--
'Tis written, since fighting begun,
That sometimes we fight and we conquer
And sometimes we fight and we run."

Occasionally we would send a bullet back at these discourteous
pursuers, and possibly on account of that, or maybe some other reason,
they refrained from closing in on us.

About half a mile from where we left the train the railroad crossed on
a high trestle the little stream I have mentioned, which here turned to
the left, and we had to ford it. It was only about knee-deep, but awful
cold. The Confederates did not attempt to pursue us further after we
crossed the creek, and from there we continued our retirement
unmolested. I fired one shot soon after we forded the stream, and I
have always claimed, and, in my opinion, rightfully, that it was the
last shot fired in action by the regiment during the war. I will
briefly state the circumstances connected with the incident. In
crossing the creek, in some manner I fell behind, which it may be said
was no disgrace, as the rear, right then, was the place of danger. But,
to be entirely frank about it, this action was not voluntary on my
part, but because I was just about completely played out. Firing had
now ceased, and I took my time, and soon was the tail-end man of what
was left of us. Presently the creek made a bend to the right, and
circled around a small elevated point of land on the opposite side, and
on this little rise I saw a group of Confederate cavalrymen, four or
five in number, seated on their horses, and quietly looking at us. They
maybe thought there was no more fight left in us, and that they could
gaze on our retreat with impunity. They probably were officers, as they
had no muskets or carbines, and were apparently wearing better clothes
than private soldiers. I noted especially that they had on black coats,
of which the tails came down to their saddle-skirts. They were in easy
shooting distance, and my gun was loaded. I dropped on one knee behind
a sapling, rested my gun against the left side of the tree, took aim at
the center of the bunch, and pulled the trigger. "Fiz-z-z--kerbang!"
roared old Trimthicket with a deafening explosion, and a kick that sent
me