Kyle Vasey Jersey

Our camp was in the heart of Copiah County, Mississippi, a mile or so west of Gallatin and about six miles east of that once robber-haunted road, the Natchez Trace. Austin's brigade, we were, a detached body of mixed Louisiana and Mississippi cavalry, getting our breath again after two weeks' hard fighting of Grant. Grierson's raid had lately gone the entire length of the State, and we had had a hard, vain chase after him, also.

To show him how little I cared for any girl's age whose father preferred not to mention it, I reverted to his sister and brother. She was in New Orleans, he said, with her nieces, but might at any moment be sent into the Confederacy, being one of General Butler's "registered enemies." The brother was--

"We shall have to get Ned Ferry back here," the Major was saying as I entered, "to make you boys let Scott Gholson alone."

"Jim," said the younger, "I don't believe all the conscripts we've caught these three days are worth the powder they've cost!"

We're going to get married, but don't tell pa--"

"Guess I'm the first Yankee y' ever caught, ain't I?" His smile was superior, but congratulatory.

"Two--what?" His smile broadened. "You know that?"

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