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I decided to retrace my steps, until I came to the camp of the wagon train, that I had met late that afternoon. Directly after leaving the ferry, I came to a slough, which I had surrounded on my way down, but was afraid to undertake it in the darkness, and as I could see the road on the opposite side, I resolved to ford it -- found it about waist deep. Overtook the wagon train about two miles from the ferry. I told the gentleman why, and what I came for, he remarked that his bunk was like an omnibus, "Always always [sic] room for another one." He treated me very kindly, and in return, I spread before him the lunch my relatives had provided for me. We spent the night very pleasantly together. Next morning I thanked him for his kindness, and returned to the ferry, soon crossed and found that the Command had camped but a little way on the other side, which accounted for the answers to my calls, the evening before. I overtook them about 10:00 o'clock.

We passed through the towns of Crocket, Madisonville, via Piedmont Springs to Navisota [Navasota], thence to Hemstead. Here we encamped, went to drilling, and the non-commissioned officers studying and reciting lessons in the tactics, as though the war was going on for years to come; but between May 1st and 15th 1865, we received news of the surrender of Gen. R. E. Lee. The soldiers soon began to leave, one by one, and later, in small groups, until by the 16th or 18th (on which day I left) the camp was very thinly populated. The calculation had been, and was then, for the army to break up on the 19th, and the officers tried to influence the men to wait, promising transportation, rations and an equal division of the wagons and teams at the time of disbanding. I was reluctant to leave before the main army, but taking into consideration the scarcity of everything on which to subsist along the main road, G. W. Tucker, G. W. Petty, T. N. Steed and I concluded to take the train for Milligan [Millican], intending to travel from thence to Tyler, by the most direct route. Accordingly, we began to get ready for our journey. We cooked some rations, and at 3:00 or 4:00 o'clock, May 17th, 1865, we bid our comrades adieu, and though we were worn out with camp life, I could not keep from shedding tears, when I separated from some of my friends. We were soon at the depot at Hemstead, Tex. Here we expected some trouble getting on the train, but when we arrived, the town was full of soldiers, breaking down doors and ransacking houses. A great many provided themselves with saddles and bridles, and those who could not get mounted here, went with us to the train, and the conductor hitched on a sufficiency of boxes, without any hesitation, to carry all who wanted to go, and we soon ran to Navisota. Here a great many mounted themselves. Those who could not, resumed their places on the train. Next we came to Milligan, where they began to leap from train, before it had hardly checked its speed; to try to procure horses. A great many were successful. Some had wild mustangs, which were pitching and bellowing at a terrible rate. They rode them, I suppose. I never waited to see. My comrades and I did not try to mount ourselves, for fear we might get hold of some private property (which I believe was often done) but pushed on afoot. Soon after leaving town, G. W. Tucker left us, to go to his family, who had moved to some of the southwestern counties. My two comrades and I, went a short distance, and called at a house for some milk, which they gave us, also some butter, which was a treat, not having had

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anything of the kind in months. We pushed ahead, as soon as we had eaten our supper. I do not now remember where we stayed that night, or in fact, anything on the trip worth relating. Our mode of getting something to eat was to stop at the houses and tell them our circumstances, that we were Confederate soldiers, disbanded, with no means, except Confederate money, and were trying to make our way home. Being but three of us, we could easily have stolen enough to have done us, after the fashion of soldiers, but we chose to act honestly, and I do not regret it today. We met with kind people, who gave us plenty, we did not miss a meal, unless from choice, all the way from Hemstead, home. The longer I live, the more I am convinced that honesty is the best policy. We passed through Madisonville, Palestine, and Kickapoo. Here, I separated from my comrades, and went through Cherokee County to see my relatives. I hesitated somewhat, whether or not to go by, knowing that my uncle was an extreme secessionist. I knew however, that if they did not receive me as cordially as I wished, I could go on my way rejoicing. On arriving, the old gentleman had gone to Van Zandt County. The family received me very kindly.

On the way between here and where I left my comrades, I had to ford the Nueches [Neches] River. I met a boy on horseback there, but he refused to take me across, so I had no time to hesitate, but went right across. As well as I remember, it did not swim me.

I spent three or four days with my relatives; when I again resumed my journey. They sent me on my way to Tyler, a distance of nineteen miles. Again, I became an Infantry man. I walked within two miles of Water's Bluff, on the Sabine River. That night, I camped with Capt. Spratt and his men (a Company from Coffeyville). Next morning we were off before daylight, came to the river by sunrise. The road here, was lined with soldiers, returning home. At the river, a squad, who had a little white pack mule, had driven him into a bog, for amusement, I suppose, and as I passed, they were enjoying themselves finely, at the expense of the little creature. I came on this side a half mile, called for breakfast, ate, and resumed my journey along a road that they directed me; it, however soon played out, to use a common phrase, and left me standing in the woods.

A person in time of peace, in such circumstances, or in such as I was, when I had to ford the river, described above, would be at a great loss, but the military teaches to stop at no obstacle.

I took my course, and traveled through the forest, a distance of five miles, or more, when I stumbled upon a little cabin in the piny woods. I halted and asked for directions to Caliway, which the lady could not give, although the town was not three miles away. I again, went on my course, and made my way there by noon.

I had no thought, until 10:00 o'clock that morning of coming home that day. When I learned that I was within sixteen miles of Simpsonville, which is only ten miles from home, I mended my gait, arrived at

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Caliway for dinner, as above stated; ate with a lady, and the tableware consisted of tin, altogether, save one stone pitcher. The fare consisted of sweet milk, stewed beef and corn bread. The family was made up of the Madam and six or seven little urchins, as black and dirty as any one ever saw; and several times while we were eating, they would catch the top of the above described pitcher, and tilt it to see if the milk would hold out; but with all, I enjoyed my dinner, as I was hungry, and it seemed freely given, I speak of the tableware and fare, not in any fun making way, for there were thousands of good people, who had to live in that kind of style in those days.

If the rising generation were called to such a meal, as many of their parents have had to sit down to, they would have something to laugh about for months to come.

After dinner, I resumed my journey for home, at a quickened step, passed by Mr. Hogan's, with whom I was very well acquainted, and who afterwards became my father-in-law; but did not make any halt, passed through Simpsonville about 3:00 or 4:00 o'clock; arrived at my comrades' Mr. Steed's about dusk, within three miles of home. He called me by for supper, after which, he caught his horses and carried me home, I arrived home, a couple of hours in the night, after a trip of forty-two or forth-three [sic] miles that day.

[Epilogue by Dorothy Annie Porter Tittle, circa 1920]

This is all that my father, J. C. Porter ever wrote of his autobiography, and I feel, as I am his oldest child, that I want to take up where he left off, and say something, as best I can, of his exemplary life, for he was worthy of it.

When he returned from the war, he was the only support that his widowed mother and five sisters had, as the war had set the servant, Dock, free, though he stayed for several years, and rented land from them, and was a great help, as he was strictly honest, and he had always been a good and willing servant.

My father was real anxious for a good education, sometime that year, I think it was, he started to school, but soon realized that he had such a burden on his young shoulders, that he had no time to go to school, so he told his youngest sister Cora, that if she would go to school, he would put on her what he intended to put on himself. She accepted, and he sent her several years, besides sending the next younger a good deal -- both made teachers, and afterwards supported their families by teaching as they were left widows.

He baffled along and supported all, until two of his sisters married, Caroline and Sue. The oldest one, Elizabeth, having married before the war. She married James Hogan, and Caroline married James Smith. Sue