Then I made my way down the hill and across the creek to where the girl crouched. I had my pleasure of her—teasing her the while with the hope that I might spare her life—then cut her throat and made my way home where I told my father that the Indians had attacked me. I had dragged all the bucks and the girl to the bank of the creek and had placed their knives and muskets near their hands, so that my story was not questioned when I returned later with my father and some of the other settlers to bury the bodies. What helped, of course, was the fact that my father and the other men hated Indians. I didn’t hate them. I just had no feelings of any kind for them.

And I had no feelings for the Indians or white men I killed later, although I was always careful to avoid difficulties with the authorities. The death of Indians seldom aroused much curiosity or concern, and the white men I dispatched were usually vagabonds, local drunkards or rootless peddlers traveling alone.

Then in my thirty-­sixth year the war began, offering me a unique opportunity to pursue my avocation. I had little formal education, but from books borrowed from neighbors I had mastered Latin and Greek and other subjects, and this combined with my equestrian skills and organizational abilities made me officer material. I was commissioned and rose to the rank of major before my first battle.

I made the best use of my opportunities, acquiring a great reputation for valor while at the same time experiencing some of the greatest pleasure I have ever known. Then a foolish mistake caused a charge of unbecoming conduct to be brought against me. I was usually very careful in selecting the officers and men who were to participate with me in the questioning and execution of prisoners, but in this case I picked one or two squeamish fellows who complained about me to divisional headquarters.

Fortunately, before matters proceeded further, I was captured by the Confederates. This was on the 26th of October, 1863, outside Chattanooga, my brigade then being attached to McCook’s division, R. B. Mitchell’s corps. I was leading a foraging party (unusual work for a general, you might say, but it was on such expeditions that I had some of my most interesting experiences) and the other six members of my party spurred their horses and escaped when we were intercepted by a large contingent of Wheeler’s cavalry. I engaged the leaders briefly, felling one rider but taking a deep saber slash in the leg, and then accepted capture. Philosophically, I assumed that confinement in a Confederate prison might be infinitely more preferable than the consequences of a court-­martial, and as it turned out, my life as a prisoner was not without its rewards.