Chapter VIII…

Chapter VIII

A NIGHT'S SCOUT IN JOHNSTON'S ARMY--REBEL SIGNALS--VISITORS FROM THE UNION ARMY HEADQUARTERS REPORT TO REBEL HEADQUARTERS--GENERAL J. E. JOHNSTON'S ESCAPE TO BEAUREGARD REPORTED TO GENERAL PATTERSON--FITZ-JOHN PORTER RESPONSIBLE FOR THE FIRST BATTLE OF BULL RUN, AS HE WAS CASHIERED FOR THAT OF THE SECOND BULL RUN--AN IMPORTANT CONTRIBUTION TO THE WAR HISTORY OF THE TIME--THE STORY SINCE CONFIRMED BY THE "CENTURY" HISTORIANS OF LINCOLN, SECRETARIES NICOLAY AND HAY.

In the morning I mailed a hastily-written note to Mr. Covode relating briefly the result of the interview with General Patterson's principal aide, and stating further that I would return to Washington via the Rebel lines at Manassas, and report "direct" on my arrival.

I hunted up in one of the regiments a former acquaintance, who had some knowledge of my Fort Pickens adventures through the papers. As our talk naturally turned in this channel, he expressed a lively desire to engage with me in any further undertakings of this character, and, before we parted, it was mutually agreed that, if the arrangements could be made, we should travel together as scouts.

I told my chum of my intention of going to Washington via Winchester and Manassas, and suggested that he secure permission from his colonel to go part of the way along; that he might return with any important information that we should gather, while I should go on through to Washington. It was agreed that he should be granted a leave of absence for a certain time, but he was cautioned by all his friends not to follow my lead, as it would surely result in his getting hanged. The warnings served only to increase his anxiety to get started on a real adventure.

As we could not get authority from our officers to go outside of our lines, it was necessary that we should run the gauntlet of both the picket-lines; our own were in sight and could probably be easily managed, but we did not know anything whatever about the other.

I proposed that we should make the crossing of the river early in the evening under pretence of bathing, swim to the other side of the river with our clothes concealed in bushes held above the water. We were to assume the character of Baltimore refugees desirous of entering the rebel army. With this plan matured, and all the little minor points agreed upon between us in case of capture or separation, we were both eager for the night to come, that we might start upon the journey.

We both studied the Virginia landscape carefully during all of daylight, and when evening began to draw its shadows around the hills and trees our hearts beat quicker, in anticipation of the forthcoming adventure.

After sundown we joined a crowd who had permission to bathe. There were, probably, a dozen or more in the crowd. We quickly undressed; scarcely speaking a word to each other, we joined in a general way in the sport and antics that soldiers love so much to indulge in when off duty.

My wardrobe was done up in as small a bundle as was possible, and while the others were fully immersed in their sport, I slipped both bundles further down the shore; my friend watching the movement from among the crowd. At a hint from me he swam down the stream and, quickly picking up the two bundles in the darkness that had now come upon us, safely towed them to the other shore, where he waited for me. I joined him as soon as possible, without being missed; we hastily dressed and ran back from the bank into the bushes to finish our toilets, and take an observation and both laughing at our success in escaping from our friends.

We thought it best to avoid the public roads after passing our pickets, so kept to the fields and woods, we cautiously moving along, stopping every now and then to listen and peer through the darkness for some signs of life. We crossed field after field and passed through strips of woods that seemed to be miles in extent, carefully avoiding all houses in our path.

The tramp became lonesome and tiresome--our nerves were at the highest tension, as we expected at every step to meet with something, we didn't know exactly what. Without a sign of anything alive except the crickets and frogs, we finally became indifferent and careless, having about concluded in our own minds that the rebels had left that part of Virginia. One fact was certainly established early in the scout, there were no signs of an enemy in General Patterson's immediate front that night, and probably there had not been any regular force near him for several days; yet every soldier in our army was positive that the woods right in front of them where we had been tramping were full of rebels. General Patterson's official reports will show that he entertained this erroneous opinion; yet he had no desire to avail himself of the service of scouts.

Becoming convinced that we should not meet with any opposition, we became bolder the further we went, and at last took the public road, trotted along leisurely without much attempt at concealment for some distance; we had almost became disgusted, not meeting with any fun, when we stumbled right into a barricade, which had been placed across the public highway by the rebels. Luckily for the two foolish scouts, the enemy was not there to secure the game that had blundered into their trap.

It is doubtful if it had ever been occupied at all, being probably placed in that position as a blind. This blockade, however, would have answered the purpose of obstructing, for awhile at least, a cavalry raid, or charge. Most likely it had been placed there to protect a retreating army.

It did not have the effect of stopping us, however, and we moved on further south. As we emerged from a deep wood, we were at last rewarded by seeing a light on the top of the hill beyond, but yet some distance to the side of the road; we made this out to be a light in the window of some farmhouse, but my comrade, who was a farmer boy, suggested that it wasn't the right thing for a farmhouse to be lighted up that way at midnight.

Looking at it from our uncertain standpoint, we concluded to approach it cautiously and see if there were anybody stirring around about the light.

Climbing over the fence into the field, we approached that light by the cautious, engineering tactics, using a zigzag stake-and-rider fence for our sap. For the first time that night we felt for our pistols, which were the only weapons we had. The oppressive silence was broken by my farmer comrade's voice startling me by a husky:

"I'll bet we'll find the dogs at home, anyway."

We crawled up that fence in single line, heads and bodies bent, something after the style of pictures of Indians about to attack a pioneer's log house. Stealthily we moved along, pausing every moment or two to listen and look about. We had some dispute as to which of us should take the advance. I reasoned with my friend that he was the better countryman, and more familiar with stake-and-rider fences and dogs than I; that it was his place to go ahead; but he wouldn't have it that way, insisting that I was the captain and must lead; so I reluctantly went ahead, insisting that he should follow his leader close enough to be touched. While talking in hushed voices, I stepped abruptly right onto something soft and round, which jumped up as suddenly as if I had loosed a spring, and with an unearthly snort and grunt began to scamper off. I was so startled, and became so nervous from the suddenness of the encounter, that I must have jumped around as quickly as an automaton pulled by a string--my comrade being close to me, as directed. I had by my quick turn knocked my head square against his with such force that we were both stunned. It was only an old hog that we had roused from the innocent sleep of the country, which, at any other time, would have been awfully funny, but we were both too badly hurt to laugh, and too much scared to swear out loud.

This one hog started up some others, the whole herd scampering over the fields snorting, which in turn routed out the dogs from the house, that came tearing out toward the sounds. Luckily enough, there was a picket or garden fence between us and the house, which the dogs didn't get over, and, before they got around it, their attention was drawn away from our location toward the hogs that were still running away from us. While my companion and I were comparing notes we were further startled by hearing a sound of voices, which were apparently coming from the same direction we had just passed over. Now we were in for it. There were dogs in front of us, hogs to the side of us, and voices to the rear of us.

The lights at the house had disappeared suddenly when the dogs began their uproar--there was nothing to be seen except the outlines of the grove surrounding the house. While breathlessly considering what would be the next best move, the sound of voices was again heard, seemingly closer this time. Straining every faculty, I imagined that I could also distinguish footsteps; that there were more than one person was evident from the conversation; but whether they were colored boys, returning from a night out, or white men and enemies who, like ourselves, were on a scout, armed and liable to go off at half-cock on the slightest provocation, was the one thing we would have given anything to have found out.

We couldn't run, as our retreat was cut off, and, if we moved at all, we were likely to start up the pack of infernal dogs, so we did the only thing possible under the circumstances--kept still.

The footsteps came on up the road, the voices getting closer. We made out that there were three persons, all talking earnestly together. If they had discovered us we would probably have carried out the Maryland refugee plan, and have joined them and have escaped detection. But what if they should be our own men?

I imagine that I can hear better with my hat off, so putting my head close to the ground, and in such a position that I could see over the lower fence rail, I waited with beating heart the coming footsteps. It was soon evident that they were talking about the light in the house that had disappeared, and I soon learned from the voices and the language used that they were not colored men. As the trio came nearer, one voice said:

"Well, we'd better wait right here."

"Oh, it's all safe enough; let's go on!"

"But," said the first speaker, "they said not to come to the house at night, unless there was a candle light in that far-corner window."

The third, who had not yet spoken, was nearest me, and was looking into the field right over where I lay. I thought that through the darkness, to which our eyes had become accustomed, that I recognized a face and form that I had met some place, but was not able to clearly distinguish.

While there had been nothing said to indicate their errand, it became pretty clear from these words that they were enemies, as there was apparently an understanding about the light in the window.

Was it possible that there were other men from the house skirmishing around in the darkness to our rear, and aided with guns and those dogs, would they run us down?

The third person, stepping a little in advance of the others, said: "Get back to the fence; there's somebody up on the road."

They scattered, and in a moment more suppressed voices were heard coming from an opposite direction, or down the road.

We were between two enemies, but, fortunately, for us, on the opposite side and behind a big fence crouching in some elderberry bushes. My companion, as still as a log, was probably, like myself, so badly scared that he couldn't trust his voice to whisper a thought.

Two men--one in his shirt-sleeves, and the other in rebel uniform, which I so well recognized, as the same old grey I had been familiar with at Pensacola and Montgomery, came cautiously down the road. As they were almost directly opposite me, one of the three who had come up the hill, accosted them familiarly:

"Helloa, Billy; you like to scairt us to death. I thought the Yankees had put you and your light out sure."

At once there was mutual hand-shaking, laughter and general hilarity, that served to draw attention away from ourselves and the dogs. The man in his shirt-sleeves explained that he had kept his light in the window all right, until a little while previously, when the dogs scared up something, and he took it down, until he was sure everything was all right.

So here was a signal station, and a rendezvous. I took courage when the party began to move off toward the house, and, as they passed my loophole, I discovered, to my astonishment, that one of the three who had come up the road was none other than the young man I had seen in General Patterson's headquarters, accompanying the old gentleman, and both of whom were so cordially entertained by our General's staff. Here he was, a direct messenger from headquarters of our army, meeting, by a concerted signal, a Rebel officer in the enemy's country.

That was news, sure enough; and they had hardly gotten out of sight before I shocked my torpid friend as I, with an emphasis he did not understand, told him that we must both skin back to our army headquarters at once.

I wouldn't leave him to return alone with such important information, but together we would go direct to General Patterson's presence, and tell him that there were no Rebels confronting him; that the enemy had positive and direct information of his position and probable plans.

"The best laid plans of mice and men, gang aft agley."

As previously indicated, I had intended to go straight through the rebel armies to Manassas, and so on to Washington via General McDowell's army and the Long Bridge. In pursuance of this plan, we had cleverly escaped from our own pickets during the early hours of the night, successfully tramped miles into the Rebels' country without meeting a challenge--eluding any pickets or outlooks the rebels may have had out, by a careful avoidance of all the roads or other usual routes of travel. But I had no intention of putting myself any closer to the fellow whom I had met the day previously at General Patterson's headquarters, and whom I had just discovered to be a rebel spy, in communication with the man in the rebel uniform, and the farmer in his shirt-sleeves. Had I tried the Maryland refugee dodge on this gathering of scouts, who were familiar with all the border, he would have recalled having seen me at General Patterson's headquarters, and an explanation would have been embarrassing.

Luckily for the two scouts, who were lying in the bushes within sound of their voices, there was such an exuberance of good feeling among themselves over their meeting, after the little scare, that it had the effect of putting the entire party off their guard for the moment. No attention was paid to the antics of the dogs, which were whining and nosing around, uncomfortably close to our hiding-place in the fence-corner. The farmer, growing impatient at their noises, which interfered with the conversation, greatly to our relief, drove them back toward the house.

The only enemy we had expected to find were the rebel soldiers in gray uniform, with muskets in their hands, standing on guard. We had not calculated on their,

"Letting slip the dogs of war,"

or else we might have provided ourselves with a few poisoned dog buttons; of course, we couldn't use our pistols on the dogs, as that would jeopardize our lives; the report would arouse the country and locate us; so, like Lear,

"Mine enemy's dog, Though he had hit me, should have stood that night Against my fire."

The five men and the--I don't know how many dogs--had scarcely gotten out of sight when my comrade and I energetically started on the back track. I am ready to admit that we ran, that we ran fast, even though we didn't see where we were going, in the dark; and I confess that I was in the lead, but my comrade kept up with me pretty well. We ran over the soft, grassy fields in the direction from whence we had come, for a long time without either of us speaking a word. When nearly out of breath and exhausted we let up a little, to get our second wind for the final run, if any more miserable dogs should get onto our scent.

"Say," gasped my comrade, breathing hard, "I think you cut my head open when you jumped onto me, when that hog scared you; it's all bloody, ain't it?"

I didn't stop long enough then to examine his head; I was in too much of a hurry, and, besides, it was too dark to distinguish blood. I replied to him rather testily, perhaps, as I didn't quite relish the reminder of being scared by a sleeping hog.

"I wasn't scared at all--just merely startled--and if you hadn't been holding onto my coat tails so closely, you wouldn't have been hurt."

"Oh, hell! didn't you tell me to keep close to you?" he retorted, savagely, as he rubbed his head, and looked at the moist hand to see if he could distinguish the color of blood.

"And you wouldn't go ahead, either, unless I was right on top of you, and, if I did get behind a little, you stopped for me to catch up."

I forged on ahead sullenly, too mad to continue the conversation further, except to say, petulantly:

"I believe I am bleeding at the temple myself, from having bumped your thick head so hard when I turned round to caution you not to tramp on that hog."

But my companion was in too bad a humor--we both were--to laugh over the ridiculous mishap, which I am sure was as painful to myself as to him. We trudged along in the dark in sulky silence for some distance further, each nursing his sore head in wrath.

I ventured the suggestion, by way of a compromise to my cross companion, that if he had taken the lead in our approach to the house, as I had earnestly urged upon him, I might have been in as bad a fix as himself. To this offer of a compromise he curtly replied:

"No; I wouldn't have tried to jump out of my skin, just because I had kicked a sleeping sow in a fence-corner." He had scarcely finished speaking when he stumbled square across the back of an old cow, that was quietly lying in the grass chewing her cud; but cows, you know, are not so sudden in their movements as hogs, when they are startled out of their sleep. This one, anyway, didn't make any unearthly noise or snorts, nor attempt to jump up and run off, but lay still, quietly chewing away, apparently perfectly unconcerned.

I believe she would have allowed a whole army to have crawled over her without disturbing her repose, but the incident served to put us both in a laughing humor. I concluded, however, that I'd had enough experience with the hogs and cows of Virginia, while we were trying to navigate the fields, and I would take to the highway and risk the short cut back.

The night was dark, very dark, having become more so than when we were on the way out. Clouds had obscured almost every star, and, to make it still worse, we heard at times distant thunder. "The lowering elements scowled o'er the already darkened landscape," compelling us to almost grope our way along the old country road; but, luckily for us, we were now on the broad, well-traveled country road between two lines of fence, which served to keep us in the right course, as we cautiously felt our way with outstretched hands, and eyes peering into the darkness ahead, fearing every moment to come in contact with something that would give us another "start."

To the sounds of the thunder, which were not now so remote, were added occasional flashes of lightning; these, had I been at home in a comfortable bed, would probably have only produced the agreeable influence of lulling me into the enjoyment of a more snug sleep, but out there, on that road that night, the effect was quite different on both of us.

We were yet a long way from our camp--how far we had no means of knowing, as our route into Virginia had been somewhat circuitous, on account of the necessary avoidance of all the roads.

Pretty soon the big drops began to fall over us; the lightning flashes were more vivid and frequent; the thunder seemed to be all around us; then it rained in earnest, an old-fashioned, Virginia, summer-night's rain, wetting the two miserable scouts to the skin in a little while. It was no use to look for shelter, and we both resolutely made up our minds to grin and bear it; pulling our hats down and shrugging up our shoulders, we sullenly tramped along that Virginia highway, two as forlorn-looking objects as may be imagined.

In this frame of mind we stumbled right into another road obstruction. We had come upon it in this raging storm from the rear, and found the place vacant. We captured the fort, which we could see from the now frequent flashes of lightning was simply a slight mound of earth thrown across and extending some distance to each side of the road, in the form of a rifle pit; embrasures were made for cannon, and through one of these peered a log, or stick of wood, shaped like an iron cannon, the rear end or breech of which was supported on a saw-horse platform of crossed sticks. On the crest of their "works" were placed some fence rails, while in front, and some little distance down, some trees had been felled over the road, their branches being stripped of the leaves to answer the purpose of an abatis. In the darkness, we were unable to discover any signs of the place having ever been occupied by the rebel forces.

My companion recklessly began striking matches, which he had been able to keep in a dry place on his person, but, luckily for us, perhaps, had there been any one set to watch the place, and who might be only seeking a temporary shelter from the storm, his attempts to illuminate were frustrated by the gusts of wind and rain, which blew the light out as quickly as it was born.

Tired, wet, hungry and disgusted with ourselves, we sat down there in the enemy's camp to rest--if sitting on a log in a blinding rain-storm for an hour may be called resting--but we could do nothing else; the night was too dreadfully dark, and the wind and rain too blustering to allow us to safely travel on the winding roads, which lead through long strips of woods that seemed to paint everything, if possible, with a deeper gloom; beside this, we had discovered, by the lightning flashes, that the road in our front was blockaded by fallen trees, and the thought occurred to us that on this road there might be some Rebel guards seeking protection from the storm in some sheltered places.

My companion was so utterly discomfited and dejected that he refused positively to move a step further, saying:

"I'm going to stay right here till somebody comes and takes me away. I don't care whether it's Rebels or not."

So we held the fort, he finally succeeding in lighting up a little fire against and under an old log that had covered some little twigs from the storm.

"There's no danger of anybody coming out here to-night to see our fire, or bother us," said my comrade. "Nobody would be as foolish as we are, to be caught out to-night."

If we had been surprised in that condition, it's probable enough we could easily have palmed off the Maryland refugee story, and have obtained credit for our self-sacrificing devotion, in trying to overcome such dreary difficulties in getting into the Confederate lines.

I reasoned that this would be all right for him, if I were only sure of not running across the chap who had seen me at General Patterson's headquarters while I was presenting a letter from the Secretary of War proposing the spy service. My companion, who had not so much to risk, continued growling:

"Why, if we should get to the river, or run across some of our pickets in this darkness, they'd be sure to go off at half-cock, and shoot us before we had a chance to say beans."

This was a convincing argument with me. We were still between two fires. I agreed to wait for more light. I was anxious, however, that our officers should have the information we had obtained--that General Joseph E. Johnston's army was not in General Patterson's front, and the dreadful masked batteries, which were so much feared by our generals, were merely bush fortresses, thrown across the roads, or laid out shrewdly to deceive our officers. There were no soldiers and no cannon near them; and, moreover, the enemy was in communication direct with General Patterson's headquarters, as we could prove, and probably knew all his plans, while he was wholly ignorant of the probable escape of Johnston's whole force.

As I sat there, like a disconsolate toad, on that log, in the pelting rain, I pondered these things in my mind, until I became so nervous that I could scarcely keep still. Every moment was valuable. I determined to start again as soon as the rain would let up a little. But the elements seemed to be against us; it not only rained, but it poured, for the balance of the night, making the daylight later than usual.

My companion became sleepy and dreadfully stupid, and was apparently lost to all fear for his own safety. My time was pretty much occupied in trying to keep our little bit of fire from going out. Before I was fully aware of it, the grey daylight was mixing with the black, which was beginning to thin out as the rain slackened off somewhat. I soon began to distinguish objects in the landscape short distances away. A large farmhouse situated only a short distance to our rear was revealed, but being off the road, as is the custom in that country, we had passed it in our tramp along the road during the night.

If there were any guard at all for that place, they were probably comfortably housed there while the storm raged without, but they would probably be aroused bright and early in the morning, to look after their wooden guns. I kept my eyes strained toward this house for some sign of life, but not seeing anything, not even smoke from the chimneys, nor a dog in the yard, I turned wearily for a lookout in the direction of our own country, to try and discover, if possible, how far we were yet from our friends.

The rain had now ceased. My comrade, leaning against a log, was sleeping out loud; he didn't present a particularly attractive appearance, either; though a handsome young fellow, with black hair and eyes, and a fine form, he certainly was not a sleeping beauty; but, lying against a smoky old log, his eyes closed, but a capacious mouth hung wide enough open to have answered for the mouth of a cannon, the whole side of his face smeared with blood, that had oozed from the head, after the concussion over the hog, while the other half of his handsome face, being next to the smoky fire, over which he had been nodding in his sleep, was begrimed with the smoke and ashes that had adhered to his wet skin; the wet, dripping clothes were, of course, clinging to his manly form in anything but an attractive style. I felt that if I were nearly as ugly as he, the appearance of two such objects would be sufficient to frighten off anybody that might approach us, and I took renewed courage from this fact.

I turned from the contemplation of this ludicrous scene to again take an observation. In the direction of our lines this time I thought I discovered something moving along the edge of the wood. I was about to conclude that I had been mistaken, when I was startled by the appearance of two men, standing together some distance below, apparently talking earnestly, as one of them pointed up the road toward our fort.

I was in a condition of mind and body to be chilled by anything at that time, and imagined that we had been discovered and were being surrounded to prevent our escape. Running back to my partner, I roughly shook him up, saying we had to move quickly. The stupid fellow, opening one eye, refused to stir. Giving him another good shake, I again repeated the warning. He slowly realized his position, and stared wildly about.

I dragged him over to where he might see the two men who were standing down the road, and endeavored to point out the danger; apparently not yet fully awake, he coolly crawled up on the felled tree, which was lying across the road, as if to get a better look at them, before I could pull him down. We were in for a run or a fight sure. I suppose my freely-expressed indignation at his absurd conduct had the effect of rousing him from his lethargy, as he seemed suddenly to come to his senses and was now ready to move off quickly enough.

To be caught by the Rebels attempting to go toward our line would put us in a bad plight. The men whom we had seen had disappeared at this ugly apparition on the log as suddenly as if the ground had opened and swallowed them up; whether they would come on up, or go for reinforcements, we didn't know.

We evacuated that fort, our line of retreat being in a course bearing toward our own lines, and leading us further from the two men.

We scampered through the wet underbrush and grass of the woods, every step being a slosh to the shoe-tops, while every bush dashed against our already well-soaked clothes all the water it had gathered in its leaves and branches from the rain of the night.

Early morning is the safest time for a scout to do his traveling, and we went straight along unimpeded, save by the wet undergrowth, and the disagreeable necessity of clambering over slimy old logs and fences, reaching the place where our pickets should have been while it was yet quite early. Here we made a mistake. Instead of attempting to pass back through our lines, as we had escaped out in the early evening previous, we thought that, being so tired, and wet, hungry, and so generally used-up, we might just as well approach boldly and surrender to our own pickets, knowing that we should be all right when once within our lines and our story of Johnston's retreat was told.

My companion being a member of a regiment that had performed picket duty, had some practical experience with the boys, and was, in consequence, quite uncertain as to the manner in which our flag-of-truce would be received by the men on guard; he said that, while on that duty himself, his instructions were to "fire at anything he saw moving, no matter what it was," and he was apprehensive the members of his own regiment would immediately bang away at us if we made an appearance out there.

"But, we will show them a flag-of-truce."

"Oh, that's nothing; there's some fellows in my company crazy to shoot at something, and they don't know a white from a black flag."

As it was daylight, there was no other way to get in, except by laying over in the woods till night, and this we couldn't think of doing in our miserable condition; beside this, we were hungry.

Feeling it to be a duty to risk even a fire from our own green pickets, to get in quickly with our information for General Patterson, I concluded to try the flag-of-truce project. Looking carefully about to see that we were not liable to an attack in the rear while making this advance, I picked up a stick in the woods, and tied to it, in the form of a flag, an exceedingly dirty, white handkerchief, and, after all was ready, with my hat in one hand, the flag well advanced in the other, I started out to make the communication, my comrade keeping close to me, there being no danger of tramping on a hog in broad daylight.

We had scarcely gotten out of the woods when I began waving the old handkerchief so wildly that the stick broke in two, dropping the flag on the ground. I grabbed up the remnant, nervously, for fear they might fire, and again waved it as we moved forward. We saw a commotion among our men--one or two blue coats were running around, as if to report the phenomenon that appeared before them. Walking ahead more rapidly, as we gained confidence from their not shooting at us, we were soon within hailing distance, and walked into their line nervously, and watched a half-dozen fellows clutching muskets which we knew were loaded, and might go off. Suddenly we were surrounded by all the guard who were not on post, who were anxious to see some real live, repentant rebels come into the Union again. That army had not yet seen a Rebel.

What a sorry looking couple we were to be sure. Dirty faces, and bloody heads, smoked about the eyes in a manner to make us ludicrous indeed, our clothes wet, dripping wet; and clinging to our bodies in rags, our tramp through the bushes having almost torn them off us.

The boys were cooking their early camp breakfast; through their kindness we each had some coffee and bread. I am a coffee-drinker now, and am, perhaps, a little cranky on the subject. I buy the best coffee, and have tried every patent coffee-pot that has ever been brought out, but I have not yet been able to find as delicious a cup of the beverage as was given me in a quart tin cup, with brown sugar and no cream, on the banks of the Potomac, in July, 1861.

While we were enjoying the hospitality of the boys, all of whom were greatly amused at our absurd appearance, and interested in our night's adventure, which my companion could not resist the temptation of exaggerating to his friends, the officer of the guard had reported his catch to his colonel, who peremptorily ordered us into his presence. Without allowing us an opportunity to wash or clean up, we were marched, like two prisoners, between two files of soldiers with fixed bayonets, through several camps, amid the laughter and jeers of the crowds which were attracted by the odd show.

Approaching the Pennsylvania-Dutch Colonel's tent, we were ordered, in a rough, dogmatic way, to make an explanation of our being in the enemy's lines. I was offended at the rude manner of the officer, and my feelings had been sorely wounded by being marched in this humiliating way through his camp; being resentful, I spunkily informed the colonel that I should not report or explain anything to him; that my report would be to his superior only--General Patterson.

A crowd had gathered about us, whom the arrogant Colonel had proposed to entertain by an exhibition of his authority and our discomfiture, and my speech so angered him that he was ready to run me through with his sword. He swore in Pennsylvania-Dutch, and again demanded my explanation, which I firmly declined to give.

He was too angry to appeal to my comrade, but, in high military dudgeon, ordered us both to the guard-house, saying to the officer who had brought us there:

"Those two men had been on a drunk, and had been fighting each other, as any fool could see from their black eyes and bloody noses--put them both in the guard-house;" and he did.

There we remained nearly all that day, denied, by the stupidity and offended dignity of the colonel, the permission I begged of being allowed to communicate with General Patterson.

I presume he sincerely believed we had been off on a regular jamboree en tare during the night, but it was a terribly rough joke on me, and the second time during the first four months of the war that I had been held a prisoner by our own officers while engaged in the performance of an exceedingly dangerous duty for the benefit of the Union cause. I again resolved, in my own mind, more firmly than before, that I should never again undertake any secret service.

My interview with General Patterson's Chief-of-staff--Fitz-John Porter--on presentation of my note of introduction from the Secretary of War, had been so unsatisfactory, that I naturally felt some misgivings as to the outcome of a second attempt in the same direction, particularly as this trip had not been authorized, but was, in fact, carried out independently and almost in opposition to the expressed disapproval of headquarters.

I felt, too, that being escorted to the General's presence, between two soldiers from a guard-house, without the opportunity to repair my dress and appearance, would not help the doubting and disdainful Chief-of-staff to a more favorable opinion of myself; and the recommendation the Dutch Colonel would be sure to send along with me would not be likely to create in the minds of the General's advisers a flattering opinion as to the reliability of our story.

I could get no satisfaction from the officers in charge at the guard-house as to our ultimate disposition. In reply to my appeals to be permitted to report to headquarters in person, I was directed to state my case in writing, and it would be forwarded through the regular channels. I knew very well that this circumlocution meant delay--that in this case delays would be dangerous, as any papers filed would have to be inspected by the officer of the guard, the captain, colonel, brigadier and major general, probably requiring a day at each of these headquarters before it would reach the Assistant-adjutant-general at headquarters.

Beside, I had no intention of submitting my special business to an inspection by every officer in camp before it should reach the proper authority, and so informed the officer who had been sent by the Colonel to obtain from me information as to my business with the General.

My comrade had been separated from me early in the day, and sent to his own company in arrest and disgrace; he had probably told his story to his own officers, who, knowing something of the young man, believed him, and in this way my case, which promised to be a lonely imprisonment for some days, was more speedily brought to the General's notice.

The young officer who had been sent to gather from me the account of our trip seemed to be favorably impressed by my urgent prayer to be permitted to report to General Patterson, and kindly offered to do all he could to gratify my desire. It was a long time, however, before I was able to hear from anybody outside of the sentry, who stood guard over me with a loaded musket.

During all those anxiously waiting hours, when I lay in the guard-house, Rebel General J. E. Johnston was rapidly getting further away, or at least making himself more secure with fewer troops in his present position, and I was brutally denied the privilege of informing our headquarters of the facts we had obtained, after a night of hard work, danger and misery combined. At last, about 4 P. M., I was notified to accompany my young officer to headquarters, to report. The young gentleman courteously granted me the privilege of washing and dressing myself up in the best way I could--he generously aiding me by the tender of a collar, brushes, etc. After a long walk, which was quite tiresome after the exercise of the night previous in the rain, we reached headquarters, where I was met at once by General Porter, who politely enough heard my story through, questioning me closely as to several points in a manner which, I augured, showed some interest in the work we had undertaken.

With a simple word of thanks he was ready to dismiss me, and the subject, as a matter of no consequence, when I ventured to ask his opinion as to the value of our researches.

"Well," he replied, "as I told you previously, the General does not place any reliance upon information of this character; we have had conflicting reports, and do not rely upon it."

"But," I said, "it is undoubtedly true that there are no rebels near us."

"But we have reliable information to the contrary, and more recent than yours."

This was indeed a stunner. How could it be. I was positive there had been no enemy near during the night, and mildly suggested that, if there were any Rebels there, they had come while I was confined in the Dutch Colonel's guard-house.

Porter merely laughed in a patronizing way, as he dismissed me, saying:

"You can make that report to Washington; it won't do here. We know all about Johnston."

"Well, one thing is sure, Johnston knows all about you, too."

I left headquarters in a frame of mind closely allied to frenzy. I was beginning to think that I must be crazy, because the general headquarter's atmosphere and style seemed to have about it an air of authority that could not be disputed; and when Porter said he had information, reliable and more recent than I had tried to give I began to feel that he must be right, and we all wrong.

Walking off, dejectedly, but again free to go as I pleased, I hunted up my companion of the night before, to offer any assistance in my power to secure his release from confinement. I found his company, and had a general consultation with him, in the presence of some line officers, in which it was agreed that our report of the situation was generally believed throughout the army; but, said my comrade:

"There were two other fellows out last night, and they came back right after we did, and reported that they had found a big Fort on top of a hill; that there were camp fires blazing all around it, and six men jumped up on the works and chased them two miles."

It flashed upon me in a moment, and I said, laughingly:

"Why they must be the two fellows we saw while in the Fort, and that you scared off when you got up on that log."

After a further comparison of notes, it was agreed by all that this was the more reliable and recent information General Porter had obtained. Our little smoky fire had been magnified into a hundred rebel camp fires, and the blunder of my comrade in mounting the parapet had turned to our benefit, in frightening off two of our own scouts. We were not aware, however, that we had chased them through the wet woods--it being our purpose and intent to run away from them; and we believed we were going in an opposite direction all the time.

I was abundantly satisfied with the night and day's experience; and leaving my friend to make any further explanations to General Porter, or headquarters, I availed myself of the opportunity to take an evening train, which carried me to Chambersburg, where among relatives and friends I was able to replenish my scanty wardrobe.

The following Sunday, First Bull Run was fought and lost.

There have been many reasons given the public, officially and otherwise, in explanation of this disaster, one of which has not been officially mentioned, and is in brief--that General Patterson, through his Chief-of-staff, persistently declined to avail himself of information concerning Johnston's movements, that had been voluntarily obtained, after some hardships, by a scout, who had been endorsed to him by the Secretary of War as being reliable and trustworthy.

I have not seen General Fitz-John Porter since July, 1861, that I know of. We all know he was a gallant soldier, whom I should honor as a native of my own state; but, without questioning his loyalty, I venture the opinion that General Patterson (who was 69 years old at that time) was by his (Porter's) influence or over-caution prevented from pressing General Johnston, as he had been ordered; and is, therefore, indirectly, responsible for Johnston's timely reinforcement of Beauregard, which made the rebel victory possible.

And I believe the same over-caution or influence was brought to bear on General McClellan at the critical hour at Antietam, and prevented his following up the victory at that time.

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Chapter IX

REPORTING TO GENERAL BANKS' HEADQUARTERS FOR DUTY--THE LIFE OF JEFF DAVIS THREATENED--CAPTURED AT HARPER'S FERRY--INTERESTING PERSONAL LETTERS CORROBORATING THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF THE "BOY SPY."

The Sunday of July, 1861 (21st), on which the first battle of Bull Run was being fought, found me quietly recruiting from the tiresome adventure in Virginia in the quiet little hamlet of Pennsylvania, in which I was born, situated at the foot of the Cove Mountain, almost within hearing of the cannon.

I had gathered from General Porter's manner as well as from his words, while talking to me only a day previous, that a battle was not imminent, and this opinion was seemingly confirmed by my own observations both in the Rebel country and while coming through General Patterson's army. There were, to my mind, no signs of a movement among our forces; the two armies were too far apart to be quarrelsome; our headquarters presented an appearance of satisfied security.

In our obscure village there were no telegraphs in those days, the mail facilities being limited to a daily trip of the relic or remnant of the old Bedford stage-coach, which rambled into town on the Monday evening following, and brought us the first intelligence of a battle--and a defeat which was being magnified every mile the old stage traveled into a terrible disaster.

This startling news spread about the village like wild-fire, reached me at the tea-table, and, to my untrained, impulsive disposition, had pretty much such an effect as the lighting the fuse of a sky-rocket. I went off like a sky-rocket--disappeared in the darkness that night, lost to the sight of my friends for months. The rocket hovered over the rebel hosts so long that I was almost forgotten in the excitement of the time. I came back as suddenly as I had left, like the stick from the rocket that drops down from above.

It is the purpose to tell in this chapter, for the first time, the secret story of those months in Rebeldom, which has remained a mystery even to my family for twenty-five years. I had never intended to print these experiences, but hoped that I might find time, when I should grow older, to prepare for my children only, a memorandum of the trip.

An hour after the receipt of the news, I was en route for the nearest railroad station, at Chambersburg, my first impression being that, as the rebels were victorious, they would, as a matter of course, move right on to Washington City and drive the Union officials off.

Entertaining this feeling, my first impulse was to get somewhere in their rear. I felt in my heart that something must be done to prevent Beauregard and Jeff Davis from driving us all out of the country, and I was frenzied enough at that time, by the excitement that was everywhere prevailing--overcoming the reason and judgment of the most conservative as well as the mercurial temperament--that, if an opportunity had presented itself, I might have been foolish enough to have attempted an assassination of Jeff Davis, sincerely believing, in my youthful enthusiasm and indiscretion, that such an act would serve to defeat their plans. That I entertained seriously and determinedly such a chimerical scheme will probably be surprising to those of my acquaintances now, but the confession will serve in a manner to explain some of my movements, which, at the time, puzzled even my best friends, who generously accounted for my queer actions by the indulgent--if not complimentary--reflection that I was a "reckless and adventuresome boy."

The same night I reached Chambersburg, and the next morning took the first train for Hagerstown, Maryland, where I learned there that Harper's Ferry was headquarters; and, as there were no public conveyances leading in that direction, in my eagerness to reach there I decided to walk ahead the same day.

I tramped out through the same neighborhoods in which our camps had been located only a few days before, finding them nearly all deserted, and in the evening reached a farmhouse on South Mountain, where, tired and sleepy after the fatigue and excitement of the day, I begged for shelter for the night, and was put to sleep in the garret with a son of the farmer, whom I found was in sympathy with the rebels.

Early the following morning I was again on foot, climbing the dusty mountain road. It was a long, tiresome walk, and, as I met with no signs of troops, I began to fear that I had gotten off the right road; toward evening my path led me through a valley or ravine, emerging from which I was suddenly brought into view of the river and hills about Point of Rocks, or perhaps it may have been near Sandy Hook. Here I found plenty of soldiers, who were dotted around the hills so thickly.

I had expected to report in person to General Fitz-John Porter, to gather further from him some advice as to the reliability of his more recent information about Johnston's escape. I learned that General Patterson had been relieved. General N. P. Banks was in command, and had his headquarters in a tent on a little plateau above, but convenient to the railroad track and the river, from which he could look into the Virginia hills, which were within rifle-shot of his tent.

I had no letter of introduction to General Banks, but, presuming upon my previous services, boldly ventured into his presence unannounced, except by the unarmed soldier who stood as an orderly outside of his tent.

I was invited into the tent, where I found the General had been lounging or dozing on his camp bed. Rising, as I entered, he apologized for the unkempt appearance of his quarters, shaking hands cordially as he invited me to a seat on a camp-stool.

Then sitting in front of me, looking straight into my eyes, I told him briefly my past experience with Patterson and Porter. He listened attentively and commented, in his affable way, on the disaster, and expressed, in a way that was most comforting to me, his belief that it would all end right anyway.

I explained to General Banks my supposed qualifications as a scout, being able to read the enemy's telegraphs, which immediately impressed him as quite an important feature, as it would enable me to procure reliable news from the highest sources of all information.

I again volunteered to enter the enemy's lines in the guise of a Maryland refugee and, if possible, attach myself to headquarters of Rebels at Manassas, or where there were telegraph instruments, without, of course, disclosing my knowledge of the mysterious art.

The General thankfully accepted my proposal, and seemed eager that the service should be undertaken at once. His words to me, uttered in that deep but pleasant voice so familiar to American people: "Well, now, I am right glad you have come to see me, sir."

After a moment's reflection, he continued: "I have no definite instructions now. I beg that you will be kind enough to come and see me in the morning again; in the meantime I will try and arrange a plan."

I presume the General desired--very properly--to make some inquiries as to my loyalty and past service. As I prepared to leave, he again took my hand, and in a kindly manner, which impressed me so pleasantly that I shall never forget it, as he bowed me out of his tent. "I am very glad too have met you, sir."

How different from the reception I received from General Patterson and his Chief-of-Staff. The balance of the evening I put in pleasantly enough after this agreeable reception in visiting the different camps in the neighborhood and in peering through the twilight over the Potomac toward the Virginia side, endeavoring to find a hole somewhere in the hills that I might get through safely.

After the tiresome tramp on the dusty Maryland Pike, on that terrible hot July day, I was glad enough when night came to accept the supper and lodging that were offered--for a consideration--in an old half-stone and half-frame house, situated close by the river bank.

The crowd of men who were gathered about the old house were dressing for dinner, or supper, out in the yard; using an old stump for a toilet stand and the lye soap (which had been manufactured by some sort of process through the barrel of ashes that stood on a sloping bench close by), and, throwing my hat and coat on the limb of a gooseberry bush, I plunged into the water, like the rest; but I reckon they all thought I was putting on airs when I declined to use the one towel that had served for all, using instead a dirty pocket handkerchief on my face.

The next morning I was out bright and early. Unfortunately for me, but perhaps better for the story, I was just too late to see the General, who had ridden off but a few minutes before I reached his headquarters on a general tour of inspection through the army. The orderly did not know when he would return, or, if he did, was not disposed to tell a stranger of his intentions; but, it was intimated that I should hardly be able to see him at headquarters again during the day.

As I turned to walk away, undecided as to the next step I should have to take, an officer observed in a jocular way: "You might see the General up there," as he pointed to the highest peak of the hill. He imagined that the unforbidding appearance of this height would deter me from an attempt at climbing it, but the hint was sufficient. I at once made up my mind, excelsior like, to crawl over the rocks and blackberry bushes to the very top of the mountain to find the General, and, if he were not there, I should at least have the satisfaction of being able to see all over the country without walking any further.

From the top of Maryland heights, while sitting alone a short distance in the rear of one of our masked batteries, the guns of which were pointed over the river so as to cover the broad plateau above the old town, I looked in vain for some appearance of rebels on the other side of the river. There was not to my eye, which I flattered myself was pretty good and educated to the sight of rebels, any appearance of life, either on the valley side or on the opposite mountain, which were quite heavily wooded.

I formed from that point of observation a plan to cross the river and climb up on the other hill or mountain, thinking, perhaps, I might have a more satisfactory outlook from that point.

Not finding the General, I retraced my steps down the mountain in the direction of the town of Harper's Ferry.

There was at that time a temporary railroad bridge over the Potomac, over which I was able to pass the guard on pretence of being a railroader. Once in the village, I looked about for an opportunity to get over the Shenandoah river, which was yet between me and the big hill I desired to climb.

I had fully determined in my own mind, after the experience with the running mate or companion of the former adventure, that I should not attach myself to anyone or permit any association in future movements, but the pleasure of meeting with a pleasant friend overcame my resolution, and about the first thing I did after becoming well acquainted was to propose that we should together go over the Shenandoah and climb that big hill, to try if we couldn't "see something" by daylight. My newly found chum eagerly assented to the proposal, and, as I have previously said, for me to decide was to act, in those days.

It was expected that we should be able to return before dark, and I hoped in an indefinite way that I might be able to bring back to General Banks, when I should see him in the evening, some information that would impress him with the idea that I was competent to undertake and to carry out the plan of going through our own and the enemy's lines to Washington.

In my first talk with General Banks, to whom I was an entire stranger, he had made a remark about a decision to issue no authority to go outside of his lines, to which I had replied that I did not ask any passes; that, if he wanted to avail himself of the service, I should be able to get outside ours and inside the Rebels' lines, and did not want to carry any paper passes.

My chum and I followed the same tactics in crossing the Shenandoah that we had practiced in crossing the Potomac on the former occasion. With an apparent intention of bathing we found a good place to "go in," as we boys used to say about swimming time; undressing in a careless way, we were soon splashing about in the shallow water in sight of our pickets. It was a hot, sunny July day, and at our bathing place the sun poured down upon that portion of our bare skin that was exposed above the water his fiercest rays. This fact served as a pretext to ask the guard's permission to cross over to the shade on the other side. The permission was reluctantly obtained.

Bundling up our clothes we waded over the slippery rocks, in sight of our picket on the shore. Once well over the river, which is neither deep nor wide, we puttered about the other shore long enough to allow any one who had felt disposed to watch our movements to become satisfied that we were only out for a little fun. During all this time, however, we had slowly, almost imperceptibly, moved further and further away; and, upon reaching a portion of the bank almost covered with willows and undergrowth, we silently stole away from the water, and, like a pair of guilty boys escaping from an orchard, we ran as fast as possible through the undergrowth along the side of a road which led up a little stream that emptied into the river.

We were again in Virginia, but this time in daylight; and, hastily putting on our clothes, I, for the first time, took note of the unfortunate circumstance that my comrade's clothes were all of the regulation blue of the Union army, which would be difficult to reconcile with our stereotyped story of being Maryland refugees, in case we should be captured.

We satisfied our fears on this point by the hasty conceit that we were not going to be caught on this trip, as we only proposed to climb to the top of the big hill.

Ascending Bolivar or London Heights is like climbing up the others, and has been well described. When we reached the summit, we found a clearing of a couple of acres which had the appearance of having been very recently occupied, and the discovery of the ashes and blackened places on the rocks where camp-fires had been--we knew not how recently--burning served to make us the least bit nervous. We were disappointed in the expected view of the rebel armies, as the heavy growth of trees in that direction wholly obstructed the view; but we were rewarded with a most satisfactory observation of our own troops and camps on the Maryland side of the river.

Satisfied with having scaled the mountain, and a little bit uneasy, we soon began our descent, taking a different course from that we had followed in coming up.

When we had about reached the road that leads along the water at the base of the heights, my chum startled me by grabbing frantically at my leg as I was about to climb over the fence into the road, shrieking, like a scared girl: "There's a man." And before I had time to look in the direction indicated, he continued, excitedly: "Great Scott! there's a whole lot of them."

He started to run back as fast as his legs would carry him, leaving me almost pinned to the fence with astonishment.

His movement had the immediate effect of causing a half-dozen armed men to rush suddenly from their ambush, straight down the road toward us.

My companion, in grabbing me by the leg as a fierce dog would a tramp getting over the fence, for the moment so startled me that I lost my head, and, thinking something was coming at us from behind, I jumped over the fence toward the danger while he ran off on the other side.

On finding myself confronted by three Rebels in uniform, two of whom had guns, the third, being an officer, gesticulated in a threatening, inelegant sort of style with the hand in which he carelessly held a cocked revolver; I at once walked toward them and, with a suddenly assumed air of relief, said:

"Thank God, I am safe among my friends."

This vehement observation rather nonplussed the officer, who, seeing that I was unarmed, walked up to me and accepted my outstretched hand in a dazed sort of way. He hurriedly directed the men to follow my entreating comrade, saying, as they ran down the road:

"Remember, now, you are not to fire unless you meet a lot."

I was rejoiced to hear this, and at once told the officer that my comrade, like myself, had intended to come into their army, but he was scared and ran because he thought they were our own scouts.

"Are you both Yankee soldiers?"

I repulsed the base insinuation with scorn, and told him we were both dying to join the Rebel Army.

"But that fellow has on the blue uniform."

Sure enough, I had forgotten all about that, but told him that was no difference--that half the men in Banks' Army were only waiting a favorable chance to come over and join them. The officer, who was a conceited fellow, who had been placed in charge of the pickets or cavalry scouts on this outpost for the day, eagerly swallowed this stuff. It will be remembered that at this time--only a week after their victory at Bull Run--the Rebels were prepared to believe almost anything reported to them from our side and were, of course, somewhat lax in their scrutiny of refugees, who were actually going over the line daily to unite their fortunes with those of the South, whom they were sure after the first battle must be victorious.

We had quite a pleasant talk as we stood together by the roadside awaiting the result of the chase of my comrade. It was explained by the officer that their instructions were not to fire except in certain emergencies; the object of their being there was to quietly observe the operations of the Yankees from their points of lookout on the heights, from which a full view of everything transpiring on our side was to be had.

This was an item of news from the Rebel officer which I should like General Banks to have been advised of. He further astonished me by saying:

"We have been watching you two fellows all the afternoon; we saw you cross the river, and when you came up the hill our men up there came in and reported that you were two scouts, and could be captured, so I was sent down here to gather you in."

I was able to force what I am afraid was rather a sickly laugh at this exhibition of our "prowess," and, as a further earnest of our good intentions, I volunteered to accompany the officer down the road, with a view of meeting my running comrade and signaling him it would be all right to come in.

Accepting this service, we walked rapidly together in the direction taken by the two men with guns, but as all three had stopped to hear my story, my chum had probably been making good time along his side of the fence, which, with the undergrowth, had served to keep him out of sight, and had stretched the distance between him and the Rebels, but, as the river was still to ford, I feared, for my own safety, that he might yet be captured.

We had not gone far when we met the two men returning alone. To the eager questioning of the officer the foremost one replied:

"We been down to the river and he ain't thar." The second Rebel joining in, said: "That fellow's in the woods, sure--he never went to the river."

After a little consultation, in which I took part, it was decided to wait and watch till he should come out of his hole. With a view to making myself more solid with the officer, I volunteered to assist in the hunt by proposing to call loudly on my friend to come out of his hiding place and join us. The proposition was, in a courteous manner, conditionally accepted, the officer being fearful that any loud calls might be heard by the Yankee's outposts and endanger their secluded outlooks, advised that I should be moderate in my outcry. Climbing up on the fence and putting both hands to my mouth to form the trumpet boys use when hallooing to their playmates, I sang out as loudly as I could, "H-e-l-l-o-o-a, B-o-b!"

All eagerly listened for the echo in reply, but I, fearful that he might answer, continued in the next breath:

"All right," and as I forced a little choking cough, to disguise and smother the words, like the robber in Fra Diavalo, "Come on!"

All waited quietly for an answer, but only the echo "on" came back. Bob was too far off to have heard my voice, and I realized I had been left alone in the hands of the Rebels. I was a prisoner.

There is among some old letters that my sister has religiously preserved--one from a stranger, signed with Bob's correct name and address, describing in feeling terms our adventure, and my capture, bewailing my sad fate, and tendering his heartfelt sympathy, pretty much in the same form of letters from comrades in the field, which became frequent in the families of the North and South announcing the death or capture of sons and brothers, in which it is stated that, as my companion heard shots after he left me, and he supposed, of course, I had been killed. I may as well state that this letter was written by Mr. C. W. Hoffman, who is now a resident of Latrobe, Pennsylvania.

Comrade Hoffman served subsequently with distinction as a scout, being detailed as one of a party to approach Fort Sumter previous to the attack made there.

A pleasant renewal of the old war acquaintance has recently been brought about. I give herewith a recent letter from Mr. Hoffman:

LATROBE, PENN., March 29, 1887.

J. O. KERBEY.

Dear Old Friend: I often thought of you. I learned your present address from your brother at Wilmore. What are you doing? Let us hear from you. I am the fellow that run away from you on the mountains, in Virginia, in August, 1861. I went on quite a distance that day. I slept on that mountain all night. The next day I returned to the hotel at Sandy Hook. I had quite a time of it: I saw several Rebel cavalrymen, but I always made it a point to keep out of their way, as I had the blue pants and blouse on. Those fellows made their headquarters next to where you made the inquiries at the old woman's log house. It was a wonder they did not take me a prisoner, as at times I wandered out in the country very barely. Wasn't there a Rebel camp near Leesburg, or was that the name of the town near that mountain? I suppose it is about eight miles from Harper's Ferry. I could hear drums beating plainly--I was not far from the town. I had quite a time of it when I returned to Sandy Hook--I was arrested as a spy, was thrown into the guard house, but finally got out all right. I was a scout and had papers to show to that effect, but never did much at it. Hoping to hear from you.

Yours truly, C. W. HOFFMAN.

As a further evidence of the correctness of my narrative, and with a view of adding interest to the story, I publish herewith a private letter from my brother, Spencer, who was at that time in the Military Telegraph Service. My aunt Ruth, to whom it was addressed, and who was a mother to us both, passed many sleepless nights on account of my wanderings, has recently resurrected some interesting testimonials.

CAMP UNION, NEAR BLADENSBURGH, MD.,} September 9th, 1861. }

Dear Aunt: By some unaccountable reason your letter was delayed. It was handed me by an "orderly" this evening. I presume it's beyond the possibility of a doubt that poor Joe was killed at Sandy Hook. My grief can better be imagined than described. None but those who have suffered the severing of ties of a loving brother's affection can form an idea of my heart's affliction. My dear sisters, how deeply and sincerely I sympathize with them in the deplorable loss of an ambitious brother. That letter must have almost broken Hatty's heart. It must have been a violent shock to father, but why should I so write and rouse within all of you the bitter renewal of your grief? We have for our support, that brother Joe fell nobly in the cause of his country, lamented by an affectionate and loving family, relatives and friends. It is to be hoped that when the keen sensibilities of our passions begin to subside that these considerations will give us comfort. I pray that the Almighty may give us (particularly father) fortitude to bear this severest of strokes, is the earnest wish of a

Brother in affliction, SPENCER.

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X. AT BEAUREGARD'S HEADQUARTERS--ON DUTY AT MANASSAS

I didn't report to General Banks that night--circumstances entirely beyond my control prevented me from doing so. I was, by the "fortunes of war," or my own carelessness, denied the privilege of proving to the General that I was "smart" enough to get through his own lines and back again from the enemy's country without the use of passes from his headquarters. If this should reach the eye of General Banks, he will, for the first time, read my official report of the scout, which I had proposed to him in July, 1861, and will, I am sure, in his courteous manner, accept, even at this late date, this apology or explanation for my failure to keep my engagement with him.

Luckily for me, at that particular time I did not have in my possession any passes from General Banks, or letter of introduction from the Secretary of War, endorsing me as a competent spy. These I had left with General Patterson a few days previously.

Leaving the two soldiers to further look after the road, in hope of enticing my friend in--not that they were so anxious for the person of a prisoner--but, as they said, it was important no one should escape to report the fact that a station for observation was being maintained on the heights.

Alongside of my officer I walked for quite a long distance, talking in a general way upon the subject which was then uppermost in everybody's mind--i. e., the recent battle of Bull Run. For good reasons, I heartily agreed with his absurd conclusions. I knew full well the importance of creating upon his mind the impression that I was a bona fide refugee, and with the instinctive shrewdness partly born of my former experience I was successful in fully satisfying the officer that the Southern army had secured another hearty supporter, or zealous recruit. It was scarcely possible to undo the thing at that time, as the whole South were wild in their enthusiasm after Bull Run, and to this fact I may partially ascribe my escape from detection and execution.

The only fear that I entertained was, that I might meet either with some Maryland refugees who might cross-question me too closely, or perhaps I might again encounter the Rebel Spy I had met at General Patterson's headquarters; or, worst of all, that some of those Pensacola troops, or Texas acquaintances, might have been transferred to Beauregard's army, and would recognize me.

A captive is always an object of curiosity. I must expect to be gazed upon, stared at, and scrutinized wherever I should be taken.

I might explain away any objections that would offer to the refugee story, as there was no evidence existing that I had recently acted the part of a scout; but the Fort Pickens episode could not be so explained. The mere discovery of my identity meant a speedy hanging, without the form of a court-martial.

I believe I have not yet tried to describe my personal appearance at that time.

I had, from a mere lad, been wearing my hair long, combed back of my ears; despite the jeering remarks of my companions, my "back hair" reached my shoulders, where, truth compels me to admit, it lay in better curls than Buffalo Bill's, Texas Jack's, or, more recently, that of "Jack Crawford," the cow-boy scout.

Probably my long hair was in part accepted by the rebels as an evidence that I naturally belonged to the South, where the style was more common than in the North. It will be remembered, too, in extenuation of my fancy, that I had spent the previous winter in Texas, the climate of which is favorable to the growth of hair on the cow-boys.

My dress, at the time of our surprise, consisted simply and only of a fine, colored, traveling shirt with open rolling collar, red loose necktie, dark trousers, and a coat of the same, topped off by a small, soft, slouch hat; of course, I had shoes which were pretty well worn, and my feet had become quite sore from so much walking. This was not a very complete wardrobe out of which to fashion a costume for a disguise.

My face had become very much sun-burned, and, in bathing, while exposed to the hot sun, my shoulders had become blistered, so that the flannel or cloth overshirt peeled the skin off in a most uncomfortable way.

Reaching the advance of the Rebel outposts, which were located at an old house--half farm and half tavern--situated on the bank of the little stream at the ford or point where the highway or pike crossed which led to Manassas, we found assembled quite a number of Rebel cavalry soldiers, who were entertaining in their exuberant, self-satisfied way, quite a crowd of civilians who had been attracted to the place.

Into this group of eager, inquisitive Rebels I was, to their surprise, introduced as a "prisoner who wanted to join our army."

It may be surmised that I had, with as great eagerness as themselves, anxiously glanced among the faces, that were all turned towards us as we approached, to discover if among them were any whom I had ever seen before.

Providence, on this occasion at least, was not "on the side of the heaviest battalion," but with the solitary "refugee," who breathed a sigh of relief upon failing to discover one familiar face.

Unfortunately for my peace of mind, there were among the civilian visitors to these soldiers one of those pompous Virginian 'Squires of middle age who, though attired in a fancy grey uniform coat and civilian's pants and hat, was not, I was informed, really in their service. The patronizing manner peculiar to this class of gentlemen was, by reason of his age, indulged by the young officer in command, who permitted him to dictate, like a country 'squire, the manner in which the "culprit" should be disposed of.

It was arranged by my captors, through this meddlesome old 'Squire's influence, that I should be escorted to General Beauregard as a prisoner, leaving for him or his officers to decide upon the advisability of accepting my story and services.

The pompous old Virginia militia Colonel was merely gratifying his own selfish vanity by securing me as his prey, proposed to take me in his buggy direct to the General, whom he wished to communicate with personally.

"How is it that your companion in the uniform ran away on the approach of our troops?" said the old wind-bag, addressing me in a manner so haughty that I immediately resented it, and replied in a tone that some of the bystanders rather enjoyed:

"Oh, he was one of the Bull Run fellows; I am not responsible for him."

I did not relish the idea of going into General Beauregard's presence in this old Colonel's charge, lest he might, in trying to magnify his own importance, so represent my capture as to create in the minds of the officers at headquarters a suspicion or doubt as to my motive.

The young officer was convinced that I was O. K., and to him I privately expressed the wish that he would not report me an unwilling prisoner, or that I had tried to escape, assuring him that if such had been my intention I could easily have accomplished it. He agreed with me, and, at my further request, actually gave me, privately, a little note to present in my own defense, if I should need it.

So it came about that I shared the hospitality of the Virginia gentleman's buggy, as we drove along the road that evening en route to General Beauregard's headquarters with a pleasant note of introduction from a Rebel officer in my pocket, in which was recited his belief that I had voluntarily entered the lines as a refugee.

We spent the night in that vicinity, at some neighbor's farmhouse.

When the old gentleman and I were again alone on the road, I began to work on his patriotism a little, but it was not exactly a success. His manner was not congenial at all. He had with him a fine English repeating rifle, which he placed between us, with the butt resting on the floor of the buggy, and, as we drove along that day, I had it in my mind for the first time in my life to commit a murder.

As we were slowly ascending one of the mountains, I remarked to the Colonel that I believed I'd walk up the mountain, stretch my legs, and relieve the horse for awhile, when he glanced at me and, with a hateful, overbearing sneer on his face, said:

"You wont get out of this buggy until I put you into General Beauregard's hands."

I felt a wicked sensation dart through me that I had never before experienced, and instinctively my own eyes rested on the gun; the Colonel saw my face, and reached for his gun not a moment too soon; my self-possession came to me, and I merely said:

"You're not driving a nigger now."

I still had my loaded pistol concealed in a belt under my clothes. I had acquired while in Texas the Southern accomplishment of learning its use, and was expert and quick enough to have put its contents in the blatant old fool's ear, and would probably have done so had I not been restrained by the fear that the report would bring about us a crowd of Rebels.

For an hour after this incident we drove along in sullen silence. I felt in my soul that I was being driven like a condemned criminal to the gallows, and this old Colonel was merely my hangman, whom I ought to shoot like a rat.

After cool reflection I concluded that, with the officer's note in my possession, I would be able to counteract any unfavorable impressions he might try to make. I had not attempted to commit any act in Virginia that he could prove which would operate against me. The only matter I had to fear was the discovery of my identity as the person who had played the spy in Florida; but as that was many hundred miles away, I felt that I was comparatively safe.

Beside this, I wanted most earnestly to see General Beauregard myself, and to visit his army at Manassas, and pretended that I was glad to have the use of the old man's buggy, instead of having to trudge along on foot.

The approach to the outskirts of the Rebel army was evident from the frequent appearance of men in gray clothes, who were apparently straggling along the road bound to their homes. A great many of them seemed to have formed the conclusion that, having whipped the Yankees at Bull Run, the war was over, or, if it wasn't, it ought to be, and they could return to their homes in peace, at least until wanted again.

At certain points along the highway, such as bridges, toll-gates and cross-roads, we were halted by guards, who, like the stragglers, were quite communicative to our Colonel, and were of the general opinion that there was no longer any necessity for any particular stringency in enforcing orders, as the war would soon be over; we were, in consequence, permitted to drive ahead without delay.

My old Colonel had taken occasion at several points to call attention to his "prisoner" in a patronizing way. I was pleased and encouraged to note that the air of importance with which the old man attempted to surround himself did not evoke the laudation that he expected.

As we drove up to a house by the roadside to water the horse, I mildly suggested that I should like an opportunity to wash some of the dust and perspiration from my face and brush up a little before being presented to the General. My guardian angel, probably thinking it would serve his purpose better to show me up in as unfavorable an appearance as possible, bluntly refused to accord me this privilege, saying, as he drove off:

"I'm in a hurry to get there, as I don't want to have you on my hands all night."

We were now close to the railroad tracks, along side of which were numerous camps, or those that had been abandoned for more comfortable location out toward the front. I need not tell old soldiers how uncomfortable and desolate the rear or outskirts of an army are, especially in the miserable country about Manassas.

The roads were crowded with all sorts of vehicles, from artillery and ammunition wagons, driven by colored boys and guarded by frisky black-horse cavalrymen, to the two-wheeled carts run by decrepit old colored people who were peddling "truck" for the benefit of their Virginia-Yankee owners, whom, by the way, the real Southern people from the South said at that time were worse than any other sort of Yankee.

Of course the road was dusty--Virginia roads are either dusty or muddy, and, being so much crowded, our progress became a little slow. As we drove along through that Rebel army that evening, I am sure there was not a face in all the crowd that I did not eagerly scan, in nervous anticipation of meeting some one who might recognize me. When the old man was told we were off the road to headquarters, I felt as much annoyed as himself at the delay in reaching General Beauregard's headquarters.

I observed particularly an entire absence of anything that looked like preparations for an advance. Of this I became more satisfied the further on we got, both from the appearance of men traveling to the rear and from the careless appearance of the troops toward the front.

Artillery was parked in shady places; the horses were not corralled close to the guns; in fact, everything was very much in the same disordered condition that I had observed in our army.

About an hour before sundown we reached Beauregard's headquarters. As we drove up to the fence the old man hailed a colored boy, and bade him tie his horse; then, turning to me with a smile of relief, he said:

"Here we are; get out!"

I obeyed with an alacrity that caused him to stare at me in wonder, as he stretched his sleepy legs and got out after me, walking beside me with his gun in hand until suddenly halted by a sentry on guard, to whom my Virginian said:

"I want to see General Beauregard," and proceeded to walk ahead, as if he was a privileged character, but the sentry called down the old fool's dignity by peremptorily ordering him to "halt," as he brought his gun to a carry. There were some sharp words spoken, but the guard understood his business, and gave the old man his first lesson in military etiquette, that no doubt lasted for all the war. An officer near by, who had been attracted by the slight rumpus, approached the sentry, who properly saluted him, and, in answer to the officer's questions, began to give an account of the trouble, but had barely begun to speak when the old farmer, swelling like a turkey-gobbler, ignoring the soldier, and endeavoring to talk over the head of the officer, in a loud voice said: "I want to see General Beauregard at once, and I'll have this fellow punished for insulting a gentleman."

The officer, who was a gentleman, mildly suggested that the man had been only doing his duty and obeying orders, but my friend's choler was up and, refusing all explanations, demanded an immediate interview with the General.

The officer now began to get mad and, in a commanding tone, inquired: "What is your business, sir, with the General?" to which the old gentleman replied: "I will explain my business when I see the General."

"Well, sir, you will have to give me your name and the nature of your business, and I will advise you as to the General's pleasure."

"My name, sir, is Colonel ----, of Virginia, by gad; and my business is to turn over a prisoner whom we caught prowling in our county, sir; there he stands, right there, sir."

Turning to look at me, the officer said to the Colonel: "Well, you should escort your prisoner to the provost-marshal. General Beauregard is not entertaining prisoners."

After a few more passages at arms it was settled that I should be left in charge of the guard while the Colonel and the General had an interview.

While he was telling his story to General Beauregard, which, I suspect, referred more to the "insult" to himself than to my dangerous character, the officer, who had returned to me, politely said something about "old fools." I agreed with him, and took occasion to add my mite of experience with the old fool, and saying that I had merely come from a patriotic impulse from my own home to do something for the country, but had been treated with so much indignity by this old man I was sorry I had left home.

In his state of mind my interpretation of the story had a most agreeable effect, which was further strengthened by the note from the officer who had captured me. As soon as he read this, turning to me, he politely asked to be excused, as he returned to the General who was being bored to death by my Colonel.

In a moment more General Beauregard and my Colonel made an appearance, the latter still talking earnestly. The General was bare-headed, his coat unbuttoned, and presented to my vision the appearance of a pleasant Jewish gentleman. He looked at me while the old gas-bag was exhausting itself, but did not speak a word either to me or the Colonel until my young officer spoke up and said:

"I think, General, I had better relieve this gentleman of the responsibility of the care of the young Marylander," at the same time handing to the General the note I had given him.

General Beauregard again looked at me as he finished reading it, and, turning to the officer, said:

"Yes, yes, that will do."

And bidding the Colonel a good evening, as he excused himself, walked off.

It must not be thought that the Virginia Colonel believed, or for an instant suspected my true character; his only object was to secure some attention for himself by pressing me upon the General personally; and his own egotism defeated his purpose, to my very great relief.

The Colonel being thus summarily disposed of, the officer, who introduced himself to me as an aide to General Beauregard, began to apologize for my ungracious reception in the Southern Army.

I told him my desire was to connect myself with some of the Baltimore refugees, and I was informed that I should have the opportunity soon; but at that time I think there were no distinct Maryland organizations in their Army. When I suggested that, as I was without money, I must work to earn a living, I meekly observed that being a railroader at home I should like an opportunity to be employed somewhere in that capacity, as I should be able to do justice to myself and my employers better there than elsewhere until I could be able to unite with the army.

"Just the thing; we need experienced men on the roads here now as much as we require soldiers," and, turning to an orderly, he directed him to accompany me to a certain official who had charge of the railroad transportation with the request from General Beauregard that his services be availed of, as he is an experienced railroad man.

It was after dark when I became finally located, and, singular as it may seem, I was that night an occupant of a couch in the railroad depot, within sound of the telegraph instruments operating between Manassas and Richmond, and this by express authority of General Beauregard, instead of being a prisoner in a guard-house waiting for execution.

I have been careful to give all the details of this day at perhaps tedious length, not that it was interesting, but because of the bearing on the subsequent events, which I believe are as remarkable as anything yet recorded in the secret service of the war.

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Chapter XI

IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS INTERCEPTED AT MANASSAS, WHICH ESTABLISHED THE FACT THAT THE REBEL ARMY HAD NO INTENTION, AND WERE NOT ABLE TO ADVANCE AFTER MANASSAS--THE REBEL ARMY DEMORALIZED BY SUCCESS, AND TWENTY-FIVE PER CENT. ABSENT FROM EPIDEMIC--ON THE FIELD AFTER THE BATTLE--OBSERVATION INSIDE REBEL CAMPS--TALKING WITH RICHMOND BY WIRE--CAPTURED BY REBEL PICKET IN SIGHT OF THE SIGNAL LIGHTS AT GEORGETOWN COLLEGE.

I was always particularly careful to conceal from every one with whom I was in contact when scouting that I was an expert telegrapher. As such I was able, without any apparent effort at listening on my part, or in any way indicating by my manner that I was paying any attention to the monotonous clicking of the instruments, to interpret every word or signal that they gave out.

I had studied this part carefully, realizing fully that upon my successful concealment of this accomplishment everything depended.

I now found myself--through a train of events that seemed almost providential--in exactly the position inside the Rebel armies from which I could best accomplish the objects that I had set out to undertake when I first presented the Secretary's letter to General Patterson and General Porter.

I might have been there before the battle, if Fitz-John Porter had not delayed me. A few days after, I was at the old shanty of a railroad depot from which the trains and telegraph communication were had with Richmond, Gordonsville, and the Valley; the armies of Generals Beauregard and Johnston were encamped some distance in advance of this point, but my situation was exactly suited to my purpose, which was to intercept communication over the wire to and from Richmond between the Rebel Government and their Generals in the field. I might learn more by sitting still or loafing around listlessly in one day at that point than could be accomplished by a week's tramp through every camp of the Rebel Army.

When I reached the railway station, in charge of one of General Beauregard's orderlies, it was quite dark. The gentlemanly Rebel soldier, at the direction of the staff officer, escorted me thither from headquarters, politely presented me to the agent or officer in charge, as a "Maryland refugee, whom General Beauregard had sent to him to make use of until such time as he could join with some other Marylanders, who were to come in soon." I was also further recommended as having been connected with railroads in the North, and, continuing, he said:

"Mr. Wilmore" (I had assumed my mother's maiden name) "is willing to undertake any work you may have for him."

"Yes," I spoke up; "I shall be obliged for any employment that will enable me to even earn my rations until I can meet with some friends, whom I expect."

I was cordially received and hospitably entertained as one of the exiled refugees from "Maryland, my Maryland;" in fact, I became somewhat embarrassed by the generous attentions that the attaches about the place were disposed to give me, on account of my being a youthful exile from home.

The station-house was an old frame structure, such as one sees on second-class railways in a new country. One portion was assigned to the offices, in which were crowded together the ticket-sellers, the agent, clerks, and the three telegraph operators. There had not, of course, entered into the plans of the builder of the road and station-houses any calculations for the increased facilities demanded by the presence of a large army at that point, and, necessarily, everything was exceedingly cramped and crowded, which uncomfortable fact served all the better for my purposes.

There was a squad of Rebel soldiers detailed at the depot for the protection of property and to guard the employes. The measly old shanty was more correctly termed a "depot" than are some of those elegant railroad structures which have recently been erected over the country, which, properly speaking, are "stations," even if located at a city terminus--a depot being correctly defined as a storehouse, or base of supplies for an army.

This depot, like all the country stations, had a broad platform around two sides of it. At the rear of the office portion was a window looking out on this platform. Inside of the office, against the wall, immediately under this window, was an old deal table or shelf, on which was placed two complete sets of Morse instruments, while scattered about over this desk in a telegraphic style was a lot of paper neatly done up in clips, an old inkstand, half a dozen pens, short pieces of lead pencils, while behind the instruments a meerschaum pipe nestled in a cigar box half filled with tobacco. There were a couple of glass insulators for paper weights, and an immense six-inch glass jar, or battery cup, which the operators used for a drinking cup.

The fact that this cup had recently composed part of his battery and contained a strong solution of nitric acid, did not, that I ever noticed, deter the thirsty telegrapher from taking a long swig out of it after "Jimmy," the little messenger, should bring it in full of water fresh from the spring.

The wires, covered with woven thread, were leading down the sides of the window, under the table, where they were taken up in an inexplicable net, and drawn through gimlet holes in the desk, and curled into their proper place in the instruments.

One of these instruments communicated with all the railroad stations on toward Gordonsville and the valley; the other was the direct line of communication with Richmond, and as this machine did most of the business, its voice, or tone, was permitted to sound the loudest, and partially drowned the other; but if an operator's educated ear detected the signal for attention from the railroad instrument, he could, by a mere twitch of the finger, accord it the prominent place, until its wants were attended to.

All the telegraph operators engaged there were clever gentlemen, who were, of course, as full of the Southern enthusiasm as were their soldiers, and to the end gave to their cause that zeal and devotion, protecting, as far as lay in their power, the important secrets and confidences which necessarily passed through their hands, without a single instance of betrayal of the trust.

Like the telegraph corps of the Union army, they served without rank, and for small pay, and no hope of achieving for themselves any of the glory of war. To-day the army telegraphers are not even accorded the privilege granted enlisted men and teamsters. Their names are, unfortunately, not enrolled among those of the "Grand Army."

Of course, I cultivated the friendship of the boys; I flattered myself that I knew some of their vulnerable points and was able to approach them in the proper way.

What operator has not been "made sick" by the stereotyped observation of visitors, who so often observe, with a superior air, perhaps, while he is showing his girl the telegraph office for the first time, while questioning the courteous and long-suffering operator as to the never ending "curiosities of the telegraph?"

"I once began to learn to telegraph, and knew the alphabet, and could write ever so many words, but I gave it up."

Too bad they all give it up. I've heard the remark in my time on an average of about once a week for twenty-five years, from educated men, too, and have been just that often made sick at the stomach. Any school boy can learn the alphabet from his book on philosophy; so he can learn the alphabet of the Greek, but it requires close application for months to make a mere "operator," and it usually takes years to make a telegrapher, while those who have studied the art and science of electricity longest say they know the least of its wonderful possibilities.

The very first act on my part was to question in this way the operator who was on duty the next morning. I had proposed to the station-master to sweep out for him, and endeavored, in a general way, to make myself a man of all work about the place, so that I might be allowed to remain there instead of being put on the road as a brakeman.

With a broom in my hand, I observed to the operator, who was at that moment leaning over and peering under his desk cleaning his local battery, or rather bossing an old negro who was down on his knees trying to do this work for him: "I came near being an operator once."

I had not time to say that I had learned the alphabet when the young man straightened himself up and pleasantly observed: "The hell you did."

I turned my back and began sweeping vigorously, and, if the young man had seen my face, it would have shown a suppressed laugh instead of anger.

That remark fixed him. I know that he for one would never suspect me of being an operator. As the old colored uncle was not doing his work properly at the local, I volunteered to help; and, taking hold of the wires, I handled them in a clumsy way that was amusing to myself, and, under his direction, for my willingness to aid, I was told that I should have the nasty job of cleaning battery every day after that.

The first day passed without anything of especial interest occurring until about sundown, when a message which I had not heard was received for "headquarters."

It was the duty of one of the mounted orderlies to deliver all messages, but at that time there did not happen to be any orderly about, and, noting their hunt for one, I volunteered to perform the duty and on foot. My services were accepted without question, and I became the bearer of a dispatch to the Rebel headquarters.

The operator placed in my hands an enveloped message for an officer whose name I have forgotten, but it was addressed to the "Headquarters of the Army," remarking, as he carelessly handed it to me: "It's an important message from Richmond and must be answered right away, or I should let it lie over until one of those orderlies got back, because it's an awful long walk from here."

Anxious to get the important paper in my hands, I did not think or care for that at all, and told him with an earnestness that I could hardly suppress that I'd rather walk a little than lay around there idle so much, especially as I hoped by getting out to be able to meet some of my Maryland friends in the camps. They all looked upon my proposal as being prompted by my zeal or my "willingness" to be of any service possible to the cause generally and the telegraph people personally.

The Rebel armies had been advanced somewhat during the few days. We all know how difficult it is to find a certain regiment or brigade which we had left perhaps in a snug camp in a well-known location only the day previous, rigged up and beautifully laid out and decorated as if they intended to make it a winter quarters, but had been suddenly ordered during the night, perhaps, to some distant point on a picket detail or wagon guard. These sudden changes in the camps and of the headquarters to a straggling cavalryman or infantryman seem to alter the entire topography of the country in one day, and is very confusing to anyone.

I concluded, however, to take the general course which had been indicated, and to depend on further inquiries as I went along.

With this important dispatch in my pocket, my curiosity burning with an intense desire to learn its contents, I started off briskly, determining in my usual reckless manner that, if it should turn out to be important, that I'd deliver it to our headquarters, instead of to the Rebel's, that night. It did not in those days occur to me very often that there might be obstacles in my path. I presume that I felt if there were that, as a matter of course, I should be able to overcome or crush any attempted interference with my plans.

I had not gone far when I was startled out of my reverie by a "helloa," from the rear. Looking around in a frightened way, as if I had been detected in the very act of opening the envelope, as the subject was in my mind, I saw trotting up after me a neatly-dressed soldier on horseback, whom I recognized on a closer approach as one of the orderlies detailed for duty at the railroad station.

His laughing question assured me that I was not to be arrested, and, recovering myself, I was able to receive him calmly and pleasantly, as he said:

"I got back shortly after you had left, and they sent me out to relieve you. I'll take that dispatch out; why, it's five miles almost; we're much obliged to you, though."

I rather reluctantly handed over the envelope, which, perhaps luckily for me, had not been tampered with; the natty orderly slipped it under his belt and, after a few more pleasant words, rode off.

In a disappointed mood I retraced my steps to the telegraph station, walking along at a much more leisurely gait than when starting out. I had the leisure to think over my future operation, and before I had returned to the office, had about resolved in my own mind that there was not any use in longer staying about there. But, remembering my experience at Fort Pickens and in Patterson's army in getting into our own lines from that of the enemy, my mission in both cases being misunderstood and my object mistrusted by our own officers, because I had only my own word to support my reports, I fully determined that, without regard to the risk of carrying papers, I should not again return to our lines without taking with me some documentary or other proof to sustain my observations. I had thought, while in possession of the official dispatch, what a pleasant gratification it would be to my old friend Covode to be able to show him an intercepted dispatch from Richmond to the commander of the Rebel armies in the field; and as the thought of this performance dwelt in my brain as I walked along, I formed a hasty plan, which I believed I could mature and carry into effect--of securing from the files or papers in the telegraph office a number of copies of the most important dispatches, either in the handwriting of Generals Joseph E. Johnston or Beauregard, addressed to Richmond, or at least signed by them officially.

At the particular time during which I was at this point, it seemed to me that the burden of the wires was the messages of inquiry for the sick and wounded, mixed up with florid dispatches of congratulation, coupled almost always with expressions of the great possibilities of the South.

There were but few official messages of any importance that I was able to hear; those carried to and fro by the orderlies, and to which I gave my personal attention in a quiet way, would turn out to be generally some Quartermaster's or Commissaries' orders or requisitions, and I became nervous and tired over the strain or tension I had been obliged to maintain in order to overhear the instruments in the midst of the confusion always existing about the place.

As the telegraph table was jammed up tightly against the board wall of the house, under the window, it became my favorite place for loafing when outside of the office. I could sit on the board platform and, with my back against the boards under the window distinctly hear every word that went over the wires, the thin partition between my head and the inside answered as a sounding-board, really helping to convey the signals by vibration.

If the reader is anxious to try an experiment, let him place an ear against even a thick wall and allow some person with a penknife handle to tap or knock ever so softly, but quickly and sharply, in imitation of a telegraph instrument's click, and you will be astonished at the distinctness with which the wall will carry the sound like a telegraph wire.

There was always about the place a lot of idle loafers--Rebel soldiers off duty, who naturally gravitated toward the railroad stations, where the little stores or sutlers were usually to be found, dealing out commissary whisky and tobacco.

Every day, and for every train, there would be crowds of sickly-looking soldiers at the station in care of friends, who were taking them to the trains for their homes. Dear me! I recall it as if it were but yesterday, how the hundreds of poor fellows looked as they were helped aboard the crowded cars by their poor old fathers, or perhaps younger brothers. I always associate in my mind a sick Rebel, with his big eyes and sallow face, with a resemblance to a crazy tramp one sees sometimes nowadays, injured while stealing a ride on a freight train, gazing at everything in a stupid sort of way, clothed in a pair of butternut pants and coat, and big gray blanket over his shoulders even in that August sun. I saw lots of them go away from Manassas that I felt sure would never return to trouble us. They were not all sick, not by any means; some of the chaps that gathered about our place were about as lively and fractious as one meets at an Irish picnic.

One evening while sitting in my favorite place under the window, apparently dozing, but wide enough wake to take in every sound of the instrument which I knew emanated from the fingers of the operator at Richmond, my quick ear caught a message addressed to a prominent official. As it was being spelled out rapidly, promising something rich in the way of news development, I was eagerly straining every nerve and sense to catch every word of it. The instrument had ticked out the name and address, which had first attracted my attention, and I had read--"We have information from Washington that Banks--" when some big fellow among the crowd on the platform, of course not knowing of my intense earnestness at that moment, began a jig-dance on the board platform; and as his boots were at least number nine, and he weighed 200 pounds, of course the vibrations from that source smothered the other sounds. So intent and eagerly had I fixed myself on catching that message, and was so absorbed in my purpose, that, when the fellow made his first jump, I impulsively cried out: "Keep still a minute."

This was a dead "give away," or would have been to any person who had known anything of the telegraph business and my recent connection with the place; but, quickly recovering myself, I said, "All right; I thought the operator was calling me."

He went on with his dancing but I lost the message.

I afterward carelessly walked inside and tried, without exciting any suspicion, to ascertain what the information about Banks amounted to. I was not successful at the time, but kept the matter in my mind constantly during the evening, and the more I thought about it the more eager I became to know its purport.

I was satisfied fully, from personal observation, that there was no thought of an advance on Washington. I could see from the number of leaves of absence, and the great crowds of soldiers leaving by every train, that no forward movement was then contemplated. Besides this, I had heard on the wire message after message of an official character from quartermasters, commissaries and others interested in the movement of an army, of sufficient character to satisfy me of any projected advance. I decided to go to Washington and report thus much.

It had been arranged that, as Beauregard (or Johnston) had advanced his line to near Fairfax Court House, the telegraph office would be moved the next day, so as to be more convenient.

Late in the night, when the only one on duty in the office was the operator with a guard or sentry outside, I lay on the floor of the office affecting sound sleep, but wide-awake. Knowing that it was the last opportunity to get hold of any papers, I became anxious and almost desperate. A long message had been sent to "S. Cooper, Adjutant-General, Richmond," giving a full and detailed account of an epidemic that had apparently broken out in the army. The dispatch was important I knew, from the fact of its being addressed to S. Cooper, who I knew was Adjutant-General for Jeff Davis, and was, I think, signed by Dr. Cartright. It was quite long; the only part of it which I distinctly remember was the astonishing statement that twenty-five per cent., or one-fourth, of the Rebel Army were sick or unable to do any active duty on account of this epidemic of dysentery or diarrhoea. This was an important admission in an official form, and I decided that it was the message in writing that I must carry with me to Washington. I observed carefully where the operator placed the original copy after it had been sent.

It was his duty to have remained there all night, prepared to receive or send communications that might chance to come, but we all know how soundly the night-owls can sleep while on duty, and I knew, or hoped, that this young fellow would soon take his chance and drop asleep, when I could abstract that Cooper message from his files.

I did not have to wait for him to sleep; he did better than that for me; he went out of the office and left me inside alone, and I, moving vigorously, with one eye watched his every movement; he further favored me by turning all his lights down before leaving. I inferred that his purpose (as all was quiet on the wire) was to go to his bunk and take a regular sleep like a Christian and a white man, and not like a common soldier. I heard his footsteps on the long platform grow fainter and further off, and then the sound disappeared as he jumped onto solid ground. Now was my chance to get that message.

Realizing that it might be my only opportunity, I quickly determined to take the risk of his returning soon and, perchance, missing the message from his file--it being conspicuous because of its bulky appearance. I silently stole up to the desk and slipped the big piece of paper from his hook and put it--not in my pocket, not by a good deal--but I carelessly laid it "aside," where I would be able to reach it, and where the operator could find it if he should return and take a notion to hunt it up.

Pleased with my success, and emboldened by the continued absence of the operator, I thought of looking further for a copy of the message about "Banks" that I had heard come over the wires that afternoon, but abandoned it, remembering that, as it was a received message from Richmond, that probably there was no copy of it retained in the office and the original had been delivered.

Everything seemed to become oppressively as still and quiet as death outside--the office was dark; the instrument only ticked an occasional "call" from "Rd;" but as the operator was not there to answer the "call" the "Rd" operator no doubt thought him asleep, and with that feeling of fraternity and consideration for which the craft are noted, the man at "Rd" undoubtedly turned in himself. It's probable the feeble call was merely a desire to assure himself that the man at the other end was drowsy and ready to go to sleep. I understood all their little tricks. I had been there myself often, and, as I lay on that floor, I fully sympathized with the boys.

Feeling that it was to be almost my last hour in the telegraph service of the Rebels at Manassas, I became bold and reckless enough at my success, and the hope of getting away soon, to undertake a very foolish piece of business.

In the darkness, which comes just before daylight (when I should leave), I learned the Cooper message. At the same moment, almost involuntarily, I placed my hand on the "key" of the telegraph instrument and softly called, "Rd-Rd-Rd," several times; there was no answer to my first feeble call. The operator was probably asleep. I was turning away, abandoning the attempt, when I was thrilled through and through by the click of the instrument answering in a slow, sleepy way, "I-I-I," which is the affirmative signal in answer to a call for attention to receive a message. Glaring about wildly in the darkness in search of the voice of the Rebel spectre I had aroused, and who was speaking to me from Richmond, I took hold of the key and said, in nervous haste and desperation:

"What was that message you sent about Banks?"

There was a moment's silence. "Rd" did not seem to comprehend, and made the telegraphic signal for interrogation (?) or repeat. I said more deliberately:

"That message about Banks--is there anything important?"

"Oh, yes; why, you sent the answer to that."

"I forgot it."

"Yes," he answered; that "a Confederate Company could take care of Banks."

"O. K., O. K."

I had just laid down when footsteps were heard advancing toward the office door, and, in another moment, to my great relief, not the operator, but the colored servant or porter, tumbled in for an hour's sleep before it was time to sweep and clean up the office preparatory to the coming day's work. There was no more sleep for me. I was wide-awake to the importance of getting away from there as soon as possible. With the intent of throwing everybody off their guard, or to avoid any suspicion that might possibly attach to my sudden departure, I had made up, and had been careful to tell all the listeners I could get the day previous, that I was going out to Fairfax C. H. to find some friends whom I had understood were in camp there, and I might be away all day and night. Also, that I was tired of civil life about the railroad and anxious to enter the army, and would do so if I found my friends.

I knew that the operator who had been on duty, or supposed to have been on duty that night, would be relieved by the regular day man in the morning, so, of course, the man coming on duty would not be likely to know anything about the night messages, or to miss any messages that he himself had not sent. I therefore took the last opportunity to collect from the files of the office several interesting "documents," which I knew would be valuable souvenirs to show my friends when I should get back to Washington.

Early in the morning I secured a note from the Superintendent requesting a pass through the army for myself, to enable me to look up a friend. With a few further words of good-by to one or two companions, with whom I had been so singularly associated for a few days, I left the place, with the expectation of being able to reach Washington the same night.

The distance was but twenty miles, I think, to Alexandria. My plan was, during the daytime to travel openly under protection of my pass, in a course leading to the front. From the best outlook that I could reach, I hoped to place myself convenient to some unguarded point, through which I could escape from the Rebels, and in safety reach our own lines under cover of the darkness. It was not a particularly dangerous undertaking at that time, because the Rebels--officers and soldiers--whatever may be said to the contrary, were demoralized, and had become quite careless and almost indifferent to their surroundings.

I was now going into the very heart of the Rebel army. I think that I saw all that was to be seen in a day's scout. They had, what I thought at the time, an awful lot of cannon; and cavalrymen in bright gray uniforms were flying about everywhere, mounted on their own fine horses, and stirring up a dust in such a way as to impress me with the idea that the woods were full of horsemen. The infantry camps were, for the most part, pleasantly located; in fact, everything looked brighter from the midst of the army than it had from its rear; but there was everywhere present--along the roads, or in the yards of convenient houses--the same groups of sick-looking soldiers and officers, who were probably awaiting their turn to get home to die.

There were numerous fortifications, earthworks and masked batteries to be seen, and when I got on to the battlefield of Bull Run what a disgusting smell filled the air; the very atmosphere seemed to be thick and heavy with the odor of half-buried and half-burned horses and mules, the bones of which were to be seen in many places covered with carrion crows, which would fly off making their ugly noises as they hovered about in a way to make the heart sick. You all know how we used to "bury" the dead artillery and cavalry horses, by simply piling a few fence-rails over the bodies and then setting fire to the pile, and then ride off and leave the coals of the fire baking the carcass. Whew! the smell of those half-burned old horses sticks in my nostrils even after twenty-five years.

I have not much to say of the many poor fellows whose toes were to be seen above ground; and now and then a piece of blue cloth showed through the thin covering of earth, and one hand laid above the grave, from which the fingers had been actually rotted or eaten off. It's an ugly subject to write or think about now, and I dismiss it from my mind with the same feeling of disgust and sickness that I experienced that day I walked along the fields and fences in August, 1861. Under the pretence of looking for a sick comrade, whom I pretended might have died at one of the hospitals or private houses in that direction, I moved about unmolested. There were plenty of civilian visitors beside myself, who were readily granted the privilege of going over the battlefield; their army friends were glad of an opportunity to escort them, so it was not thought at all out of the way for me to be prowling about there alone in search of a sick or perhaps a dead friend. In this way I got beyond the battlefield without any trouble, and along the railroad toward the station from which a road leads up to Fairfax Court House. Here I began to encounter some difficulties in the way of guards and sentries which were placed about the railroad bridges and at the cross-roads. Their purpose was, as a general thing, I imagined, to prevent their own soldiers from roaming or straggling about too much.

I knew that the railroad track would lead me in the most direct route to Alexandria, and soon to our army on that line; but I understood, also, that it would be more carefully patrolled and guarded than were the country roads; and for this reason I preferred the woods in which to make my final dash for liberty, and the Union, and home.

The critical moments in a scout's experience come just at this point--after successfully passing beyond one line and before reaching the other; then occurs the time when capture means his sure detection, either as a deserter or a spy, with its terrible punishment; and it is extremely difficult to tell from appearances whether those you meet or see are the friends you hope to find or the enemies you desire to leave behind.

I had traveled openly and boldly all day through the Rebel Army, carrying inside the lining of my cap the official papers I wished to get through. I had placed them in my hat because I calculated that, in case of a pursuit and probable capture, I might be able accidentally to "lose" the hat in a way that would not attract any particular attention, and a search of the regulation place for a spy to carry papers--in the shoes--would reveal nothing to implicate me. Night and darkness was rapidly coming on, yet I continued boldly to advance right along to the front, and, in the gloaming, I reached a little house setting back from the road, where I applied for supper and lodging. There were several soldiers about the yard, and officers were inside the house, as I judged from seeing their horses tied in the barnyard. An old bushwhacking proprietor, to whom I addressed myself, said that he couldn't keep me, as these officers had engaged the only accommodations he had. Turning to the officers I explained in a plausible manner that I had been hunting all day for a sick comrade, who had been left at a private house; that I was unable to find him--his name and regiment I was then able to furnish, knowing very well from their distance back, where I had located them, these men would not detect me--and as I was too tired and sick to go back that night, I must rest till morning, and so I would take a bed in the barn. I showed my request for a pass, across the face of which I had carefully endorsed in bold handwriting, in red ink, before leaving the office, the official words, "Approved, R. Chisholm, A. D. C."

That was a clear case of forgery, but "All's fair in love or war," and "desperate cases require desperate remedies."

The officers were of that kind who are easily impressed by an endorsement, especially if it is written across the face of the papers in red ink; and without any further question I was invited to sit down while a warm supper was being prepared for them.

I gathered from their conversation that the Rebel outposts were still some distance beyond. Though their own regiment was on this picket duty, their presence in the house was explained by the sickness of the younger of the two officers, the older having brought him in off the picket-line. There were also in addition to this line of pickets, a cavalry detachment that were supposed to be constantly moving up and down the roads in front of or between the two armies. So I was still a long way from our lines, and had yet some serious obstacles to overcome.

It wasn't exactly a pleasant evening for me, although I was so near home again. I lay there in that hay-loft or horse-shed, planning for the last dash for liberty; I knew that I must not attempt to move out of the barn until everybody was sound asleep; I had also some fear of a couple of dogs, that I'd seen running about the house rousing the folks when I should stir; I realized that I had a serious night's tramp ahead of me; my path must necessarily lead me over the fields and through the woods in tiresome detours that would be necessary in avoiding the road. For this reason I was anxious to make an early start from the barn; and just as soon as everything became quiet I silently groped my way out of the loft and slid myself down on the manure pile; crouched a moment to nervously listen and learn if the way was clear, and not hearing a sound of life, I started off cautiously on the last quarter-stretch of my night run for "liberty or death."

Keeping to the fields and woods, but in sight of the fence along the road as a guide, for some distance without meeting anyone or the hearing of a sound except the crickets and frogs, I became more emboldened and climbed over the fence into the road, striking out at a lively gait down a long hill. At the bottom of this hill, or rather in the valley between two hills, flowed a little stream which was spanned by one of those old-fashioned stone bridges. When I came close I discovered that a sentry was standing on it. I thought it was a picket; I could discern a moving object that looked to me through the darkness sufficiently like a soldier and his gun, to cause me to get back over the fence and make rapid tracks through the field to his flank. Almost exhausted, I found myself on the bank of the same little stream at a point where there was neither bridge or pickets.

I had learned enough about the military way of doing things to understand that, topographically, this little stream of water probably represented the Rebel picket-line, and I surmised that if I were able successfully to pass this point, that I should meet with no further danger from the infantry, and that cavalry could easily be avoided by keeping away from the roads, as I could travel over the routes where the horses could not be used.

I waded right in fearlessly; there was but little water running, but, oh dear! there was lots of mud concealed under the little bit of water, and when I pulled out, on the other side, I had gained several pounds in weight which had to be carried along up the next hill by a pair of legs already nearly exhausted. I got over that hill and passed down into another valley, and had, as before, become so emboldened by not meeting with anything in my path to relieve myself of the extra labor of climbing fences and crawling over logs, as well as scratching through briar bushes and tramping ploughed fields, I again took to the road.

All that day and most of the night I had now been going steadily in one direction, as I believed toward our lines, which I had figured could not be more than twenty miles distant from my starting point in the morning. Feeling that I could not be far from rest and glorious relief from the dreadful strain or suspense in which I had placed myself since leaving the barn, I recklessly pushed along the open road. Up to that point I could have retreated and saved myself, but now that I had gotten outside of the lines, no explanation would answer, if I were captured.

I was so fully satisfied that I was outside the Rebel lines and became so exhilarated with the feeling that came over me upon the thought that the next soldier I should meet would be our own boys in blue, that I started up the hill at a brisk dog-trot, feeling almost as fresh as when starting out in the morning.

This road was through a strip of dense pine woods. You all know how dismally dark the path seems which leads through a deep and dark, lonely wood on a cloudy night. I felt, as I forged along, like the ostrich with her head in the sand, that, as "I could see nobody, nobody could see me," and was feeling comfortable enough, notwithstanding the dreary loneliness of the time and place, to have whistled Yankee Doodle, even although I was not out of the woods.

I wasn't afraid of the Black-Horse Cavalry in that darkness and gloom, because I knew very well that afoot I could easily hear the approach of horses along the road in time to get out of the way by running to the adjacent dark woods. In my mind I planned my forthcoming interview with the surprised officers of our army, whom I would soon meet face to face.

It's a rule or law that scouts or spies must report direct to the General commanding, and not talk to anyone else. I was going to do better than this, and report to the President and Secretary of War, and show the evidence that I carried--that there were twenty-five per cent. of the Rebel Army sick with this epidemic, while probably another twenty-five per cent. were absent on sick leave or straggling, and no advance was possible, while an attack by Banks on their rear would demoralize them all badly.

"Halt!"

That's the word I heard come from the darkness and interrupted my plans, which shot through me as if it were uttered by a ghost or spirit from another world, and put me in a tremor of dismay. The voice came from the side of the road, and from behind. I was so taken by surprise that I could not at the instant see the object that spoke like a deathknell this dreadful word.

In another instant a soldier in a blue uniform appeared, pointing his gun at me, as he said "Stand there!" Then calling to a comrade, who had evidently been asleep, as he did not immediately answer, I recovered my voice sufficiently to say to the soldier in the blue blouse:

"You scared me half to death, until I saw your uniform."

He replied to my observation:

"Yes; where did you come from?"

I had not yet seen his face distinctly, but his voice and dialect at once aroused my doubts, and again put me on my guard, and I said:

"I'll tell you all about it when your officer comes," and I braced for a run.

In another moment the rattling of a saber was heard, coming from the direction of the woods, and, peering through the darkness into the grove, I was able to distinguish the outlines of a house.

When the officer with his rattling scabbard got up to us I was almost paralyzed to see him dressed in the grey uniform of a Confederate cavalry officer. Addressing me courteously, he said:

"What in the name of all that's good brings you out on this road on such a dark night, disturbing our sleep?"

He laughed, as if he thought it a good joke on himself; it was only a trifling little laugh, but it gave me some encouragement.

"Why, I have been hunting the house where a sick friend of mine was left after the battle, and, being unable to find him, I went to sleep in a barn, but I couldn't stand that sort of a rest, so I got out and started back home, and I guess I'm lost."

"I guess you are."

The use of this word nearly gave me away.

"What regiment was your friend in?"

"I don't know for sure, but think it's a Maryland company. I knew him in Texas, but we were both from Maryland, and maybe he went with some Texas acquaintances."

"Well, my friend, this is rather a singular place and time to be found hunting a sick friend."

"Yes, I know; but, as I tell you, I am lost in the darkness, and must have taken the wrong road when I left the barn. I will show you my passes."

"Oh, you have passes, have you? Come into the house and we will make a light; we can't make a light out here because we are right on the line."

As we turned to leave, the sentry or guard who had halted me whispered or spoke in a low tone to the officer. I suspected that he was telling him that I had expressed my relief at seeing his blue uniform. The officer merely nodded assent, as he invited me to walk alongside of him into the house.

I took occasion to say to him that when I saw the blue coat I was sure that I had been caught by a Yankee soldier, and expressed my great pleasure at having met such courteous Southern gentlemen.

"Well, you came very near going into the Yankees' hands; why their cavalry come out here every day, and were away inside of this point to-day, but they generally go back at night, and we come out to spend the night on the road."

Then stopping in his walk he turned and, after peering through the trees, he pointed to a couple of dimly flickering lights and said: "Those lights are in Georgetown College."

Great God! I was so near and yet so far; and as I looked at the lights I was almost overcome with emotion to think that I had so nearly succeeded and was now a prisoner in the sight of home and friends; that I had, in fact, passed the last picket and had been halted from the rear, but realizing that I must, under the trying circumstances, keep a stiff upper lip, I might yet get free.

My surprise at hearing the lights pointed out as Georgetown College was so great that I must have expressed in some way my feelings, as the officer looked at me quizzically. I ventured to express myself in some way about being so near the Yankees, as I thought I was nearer Fairfax, in a manner which probably implied a doubt as to the lights being so close at Georgetown, when he spoke up:

"I know they are, because, you see, I was a demonstrator of anatomy and a tutor at that college, and we all know about it." And as a further proof of his assertion he incidentally observed: "If you are around this country in daylight you can see the Capitol from some elevated points."

In the silence and gloom that had settled down over me, like a cold, heavy, wet blanket, we walked together to the house.

Along the fence and hitched to the posts were several horses, already saddled and bridled for sudden use, while in the porch of the house were stretched in sleep the forms of two or three men in gray uniform, with their belts and spurs buckled on.

Inside the house a tallow candle was found, and by its dim light, the Confederate officer scanned my pass, and then, turning, gave me a most searching look by the light of the candle, as he said: "This pass is all right for the inside of our lines."

"Oh," said I quickly, "I don't want any pass anywhere else. I'm glad that I found you here, or I'd have gone into the Yankees' hands, sure."

While talking to the sentry, when waiting for the officer to come up to us, I had not thought it necessary to attempt to destroy or "lose" the papers in my old hat, as I supposed him to be the Union picket; and, since the officer had joined us, there had been no opportunity to do anything with him, without exciting suspicion, which was the one thing to be avoided at that time.

When we went into the house I had, of course, taken off my hat, and as I sat there under the scrutiny of that fellow's black eyes and sharp cross-examination, I held my hat in my hand, and everytime my fingers would touch or feel the presence of the paper in the hat I was conscious of a little flush of guilt and apprehension, which happily the tallow candle did not expose.

The officer, at my request, hospitably accepted the suggestion that I be permitted to stay there under their protection until daylight, when I could return to "our army," supplementing the arrangement by the kind observation:

"We will see you back safely."

Then rousing one of the sleeping soldiers, whom he called aside and gave some private directions as to my care and keeping, he courteously told me to make myself comfortable, and apologized for the accommodations.

I was a prisoner, and I knew full well that to be escorted back through the Rebel armies with this officer's report that I had been "found at their outposts going in the direction of the enemy," would excite a suspicion that would be sure to set on foot a closer examination, and this would result in my certain detection; because the first thing they would do would be to show my forged endorsement from General Beauregard's Chief-of-Staff for his further endorsement; and I could not, of course, stand an examination into my immediate antecedents, nor explain my statements, and this would also discover my operations in the telegraph office.

As I lay down alongside of the armed Rebel trooper for a rest, I resolved that, come what might, I should not go back a prisoner--that it would be preferable to be shot trying to escape rather than to be hanged as a spy.

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XII. ANOTHER ESCAPE, ETC

As I lay me down to sleep on the front porch of the little old house, close beside an armed Rebel soldier, and not very distant from two other aroused troopers, I realized in a manner that I can not describe that I was not only a prisoner, but that I was most likely suspected of being a spy who had been captured in the very act of escaping from their own into their enemy's lines. I felt all the worse from the reflection that my unfortunate predicament resulted solely from a want of caution or discretion; that had I been content to suffer more patiently the delays and annoyances which were necessarily to be encountered while tramping in the darkness through the fields and briar bushes in avoiding the highways, I might have passed the danger line a moment later, to have reached our own lines safely enough a little later in the night. I had actually passed all the Rebel pickets, both of infantry and cavalry. I learned from the talk of the men into whose hands I had run myself, that they were merely a detached scouting party, who were at that particular point at night, as I surmised, to receive communications from their friends who were inside our lines during the daytime.

This arrangement was for the accommodation and convenience of their spies in our army--enabling them to come out to this rendezvous under cover of the night to deliver their mail or supply information.

I gathered these facts from the big fellow who had me in charge, who, it was courteously observed by the officer, "would make me as comfortable as possible," after the manner of a jailor the night before a hanging.

The outpost was not only a branch postoffice for the Rebel couriers, but there was a previously-arranged system of signals with some one at the college, by which any important advances or other movement of our forces could have been quickly announced, and that would have been well understood by the party stationed there to observe this.

As I have said, I fully determined in my own mind not to go back to the Rebel headquarters as a suspected spy. The forged endorsement, or request for a pass, which I had voluntarily relinquished to the Rebel officer, while it seemed to allay any suspicions that might have been aroused in his mind, had the opposite effect with me.

It was the one little piece of paper out of my hands that was sure to be closely scrutinized by the officers. It would supply documentary evidence not only of my guilt as a spy, but of forging a Rebel General's endorsement.

I had not yet seen any chance to make away with the other dreadful death warrant, in the form of the stolen telegram that was concealed under the lining of my hat.

While passing into the house from the road I might have thrown my hat down, but I knew they would hunt it up for me, and, in handling it, be sure to discover the concealed papers. I could not get them out of the hat, even in the dark, without attracting attention that might result in an exposure; and, besides all this, I knew full well that any pieces of white paper, if torn into ever so small fragments and scattered on the ground, would be sure to attract notice and be gathered up at daylight. I was suspected, and, as such, every action and movement was being closely scrutinized and noted. My only hope was to delay the exposure that must eventually come; that I must keep still and trust to luck for escape; or, if an opportunity offered me, while pretending to sleep, I could eat and swallow the papers.

The horses of the troopers were already bridled and saddled and hitched to the fence-post. It occurred to me, in my despair upon seeing this, that, if I could only succeed in throwing these people off their guard for a moment, I might find an opportunity to seize one of their own horses, upon which I could ride defiantly and wildly down the road into the darkness, trusting to night and the horse to carry me beyond reach of their pursuit.

These were only a few of the many thoughts that rushed through my brain that night, as I lay there on the porch, so near home and friends on one side, and so close to death and the gallows on the other. It is said that a drowning person will think of the events of a life-time in one short moment. I had hours of agony that night that can never, never be described.

As I lay there looking up into the sky, perhaps for the last time, I thought I'd soon have an opportunity of finding out whether there were other worlds than ours. I was, indeed, going to that bourne from which no traveler ever returns.

The clouds, which had darkened the sky a little in the early part of the evening, were now slowly rolling by. I lay as still as death for an hour perhaps, watching the movements of the clouds; and thinking of my friends at home.

I wondered what each and every one was doing at that particular time, and imagined that most of my youthful associates were having a happy evening somewhere, while I, poor fool, was lying out on a Virginia porch in this dreadful fix, without a friend to counsel or advise with, while I might just as well have been at home and happy with the rest of them. If they thought of me at all, it probably was as a prisoner still about Harper's Ferry; but I would never, perhaps, have the satisfaction of knowing that my work in the Rebel camps had been understood. While cogitating in this frame of mind the moon began to show through the breaking clouds, and, as suddenly as if a face had appeared to my vision, the Southern moon looked straight down on my face, flooding the porch for a moment with a stream of mellow light.

I was lying partly on my side at the time, my head resting on my arm for a pillow, as was my habit; my hat, which yet contained the tell-tale papers, was under my face. I was almost startled from my reverie, as if by an apparition, and, looking around hastily, I saw standing, like an equestrian statue, on the road the mounted sentry, while along side of me, but to my back, was seated another fellow apparently wide-awake, who looked wonderingly at me as I raised my head so suddenly. I was closely guarded, and my heart sank within me as I again dropped my head to my favorite position on my pillowing arm.

The moon still shone clear, and as I looked with heavy, moist, downcast eye, I became suddenly thrilled through my whole being on discovering by the light of that indulgent old moon that right alongside of my hat was an open knot-hole in the floor of the porch.

I'm not a spiritualist or even a believer in the supernatural, but I must assert, upon my conviction, that some unseen influence must have directed and placed that ray of moonlight at that particular time, for the express purpose of enabling me to safely deposit the tell-tale papers. If it had not been for the timely rift in the clouds, I would never have discovered the little opening in the floor. Another fact which confirms me in my theory of the supernatural influence is, that, immediately after I had been so strangely shown the place of concealment, the light faded as suddenly as it had appeared, and for some time afterward the surroundings became obscure in the darkness.

There may have been, but I don't think there was another hole in that porch floor, and this one was quite insignificant.

In the darkness I could barely insert my two fingers into the opening, as Mercutio says in the play:--"No, 'tis not as deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door: but 'tis enough, 'twill serve."

I don't think a hunted rat or fox was ever more grateful for a hole than I was for this; it was my only chance to get rid of the papers unobserved, and I at once took the hint from the sky and began silently to finger them out of my hat.

Unfortunately, they were quite bulky; the official paper which had given a tabulated statement of the epidemic and absence of twenty-five per cent. of the Confederate Army, was on foolscap paper, which would rattle everytime it was moved; but by turning or scraping my shoes on the boards every time I touched the papers deadened the sound, I was enabled, after a good deal of nervous twitching, to get them into a roll sufficiently small to poke down the hole. That's what I thought; but when I attempted to drop them the wad wouldn't fit; and, to add to my consternation, the guard at this point was being relieved. I lay still for awhile in a tremor of excitement lest I should be detected; it occurred to me, also, that though the moon had kindly shown me the way to get rid of my burden of proof, the sun might, also, in the hours following, expose, from the front part of the house, the presence of a roll of white paper under the porch. I had not satisfied myself that the opening at the front was closed. To prevent the roll of white paper being too conspicuous, I tore from my hat the black silk lining, and, at a favorable opportunity, I re-rolled the little paper into the black silk stuff in a smaller package, which allowed of its being deposited in the Rebel signal station, and "let her drop." It reached the ground about two feet below, and, being dark in color, was assimilated so closely with the black earth as not to attract any notice, even if there had been an opening to daylight. This package out of my mind and off my hands safely, I breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief and thankfulness, and uttered a solemn prayer: "That I'd be hanged if I ever touched another paper."

When I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and looked around and saw daylight breaking, my heart again sank within me as I realized my position.

Through a misty, drizzling daylight in August, I saw preparations of the rebel outposts to "pack off," and was hurriedly ordered to get up behind one of the troopers whose horse would "tote double," and instead of a gallant dash down the road to our lines, followed by howling and shooting pursuers, I was being "toted," back to the Rebel Army, "on behind."

It seems very funny now to have to describe my inglorious position, as compared with the novelist's idea of a dash for liberty. I was riding lady fashion on the rear end of a rebel cavalryman's horse, holding on around his waist for dear life, like a girl at a picnic, as we trotted ingloriously back toward the headquarters of the Rebel Army. It was quite unbecoming I know, and if I had been in a camp meeting crowd I should have enjoyed the ride; just at this particular time I was obliged to be satisfied with the facilities, and pretended that it was fun. I was smart enough not to allow those people to discover, by any words or actions of mine, that I objected to going back in this way; though I would have given worlds to have had a chance to delay them, in hopes of relief coming up from the Union Army that would compel them to give me up in order to save themselves.

I had two chances for my life: I could not be expected to fight the whole Rebel Army single-handed and escape unhurt; the only thing to do, was, so to conduct myself that I might throw them off their guard and quietly get away, and thus have an opportunity to try again to reach our lines. The other alternative was, that if this chance of escape did not appear, that I might so conduct myself toward my captors as to win their confidence, and have the forged pass disposed of and not be carried to Beauregard. If conducted to headquarters, I might, by cunning stories, try to impress on the minds of those who would have my examination in charge the truth of the story that "I had become lost in the night, while searching for the house in which my sick friend was reported to have been left."

This was plausible enough, and I hoped from the general demoralization prevailing after the battle, that they might be careless, or at least indifferent, enough to let me off easy on this statement.

The forged endorsement on the pass, which had gone out of my hands, was the serious evidence against me, coupled with the fact of having been captured while trying to go to the enemy.

There was, also, of course, always before me the great danger of a discovery of my identity as the Fort Pickens Spy.

I had ample opportunity to consider all these things as we trotted along back over that portion of the road that I had tramped out in so lighthearted a manner the night previously. The soldier who "escorted" me was a jolly, good fellow, and felt disposed to make my ride as comfortable as possible, but as there were eight in the squad beside the officer in command, we had to keep up with the rest and, as our old nag was a rough trotter, it was a little bit uncomfortable at times. They seemed to be in a hurry to get away. Perhaps something may have happened while I was asleep that made it necessary for them to whoop things up a little that ugly morning.

The unpleasant jolting of the horses, and the rattling of the sabers and horses' tramping feet, prevented an easy flow of language--in fact, I could not talk at all; it required all my time and attention to keep my place on the rear of the saddle. I did not dare to drop off the horse, because the officer in charge had been careful enough to place us in front.

We reached a bridge on which was stationed a picket, who halted us; the officer rode up, dismounted, and gave the necessary countersign and ordered us forward.

I had only seen the bridge at night, and from the other side, where I had discovered a soldier with a gun walking about, when I broke for the field and flanked him. We were halted for a moment while the rebel officer of the guard, with our officer, walked a little distance to one side to consult with some others, who were in a drowsy way, lounging about a camp-fire.

I looked about to gain some idea of the topography of the country over which I had traveled in the night.

Several officers approached us, accompanied by our commander. I was requested to dismount, when our officer politely introduced me to the other, saying:

"The Colonel is anxious to know how in the world you could have gotten by his picket on this bridge last night."

"Yes," says the Colonel, "I've had men on post here who declare that no one passed them during the night."

I was taken all aback, because I had told the party who had captured me that I had followed the road right along.

"Well," said I, "I walked right over this bridge last night, and saw no one here at all."

What a whopper that was; but I knew that I'd got to go through with it. Turning abruptly away from us, both the officers walked off a short distance and brought a sergeant forward to hear my statement; luckily for me, he admitted that at a certain hour he had been obliged to leave the bridge in charge of one man alone; but he insisted that it was for a short time only. After this admission the sergeant and his officer had some interesting talk, in rather an emphatic tone of voice, in which my officer and our squad seemed to take a lively interest. They evidently felt that they had found a weak spot in the infantry line of pickets, and rather enjoyed the honor of having caught the fish that had gotten through the net.

After this little affair had been so happily passed, to my great relief, they all seemed to be in good humor with themselves and with me, and were rather inclined to give me credit for having passed through their infantry successfully. As my escort's horse was having to carry double, and could not be expected to travel as fast as the others, the officer in command directed a second man to stay with us, while himself and the rest of the body-guard rode ahead.

They assumed that, being again inside of their picket-line there was no danger of my getting out to the Yankees--if I had wanted to try to escape from them.

We were directed to hurry to a certain house, where they would order breakfast, and very considerately urging us to hurry along, so we could have it hot. I was apprehensive, from this talk of a breakfast in a house, that I should be landed back into the old bushwhacker's shanty, where I had taken a greasy supper the night before, and had been put to bed in his barn.

I was not sure of the road, nor would I recognize the house, as I had seen it only at night when approaching it from the other side. I felt relieved when we turned out of the broad road into one not so well traveled, which led to the left or south, in the direction of Fairfax or the railroad. To a question as to our destination, my man said: "We are to go to Headquarters, I reckon, but we are to stop up here for a rest and feed."

Sure enough, after passing only a short distance up the side road, we came in sight of an old tumble-down looking house on one side of the road, while across from it was the identical barn that I had crawled out of a few hours earlier. The house and necessary outbuildings of the farm were located between these two roads. I discovered by the daylight, also, that there were quite a number of rebel soldiers encamped in a wood close to this fork of the roads; there was, probably, a brigade of them, or at least a couple of regiments, bivouacking there, as I judged from the smoke of their numerous camp-fires. They were preparing their early breakfasts. These troops, I learned from my companion on our horse, were detailed for the Rebel advance picket duty, and were scattered in detachments all along the front in the best shape to protect their line.

Riding up to the gate, I jumped off the horse with alacrity, and seeing the old bushwhacker in the door, I rushed up to him as if I had found a long-lost father, and began to tell him how glad I was to be safely back there again.

"But," said the old scoundrel, "why didn't you stay here last night?"

"Why, I couldn't sleep in that old barn for the rats, and so I got out; and as I didn't want to waken you all up, I walked off quietly alone, but I got started on the wrong road in the night and came near getting into the Yankee's hands."

"Too bad," said the old rascal, with a sneer and a knowing wink to a group of officers who had gathered around there for a breakfast and had heard my story from our officer. I saw at once that I was a goner, and that my story wouldn't go down here; but, keeping a stiff upper lip, I assumed an air of cheerfulness that I did not at all feel in my heart. I was disturbed, too, to observe that my commander was being questioned earnestly by several officers, who would every now and then glance significantly at me; from their gestures and manner I knew instinctively that my case was being discussed, and every sign indicated that the verdict would go against me.

This sort of a reception was not calculated to whet my appetite for the breakfast awaiting us. The Georgetown tutor, whom I have termed "my Rebel," was a perfect gentleman, and whatever may have been his own convictions as to my being a spy, he most considerately concealed from me any indications, and refrained from the expression of a suspicion as to the truthfulness of my story. He assumed in my presence that I was a straight refugee; and I inferred, from his intercourse with the officers whom he had met at this old house, that he had defended me as against their suspicions.

A young enlisted man from one of the regiments camped about there had been brought to the house to confront me on my "Maryland story," he being a Marylander. It was supposed he would be able to detect any inaccuracies in my account of Maryland; but I soon satisfied him, and showed the officers who had gathered about that I knew as much about Maryland and Baltimore as he did, and more about the Rebel country. I had fully crammed myself on that subject, in anticipation of being questioned on it.

I have often thought since that, had I fallen into the hands of those infantry officers, after having successfully passed through their lines, they would have been tempted to hang me without trial, and the old bushwhacker would have been glad to have acted hangman. He looked like a veritable Jack Ketch. They well knew that the report of the cavalry officer to headquarters would expose the weakness of their line.

I took occasion at the first opportunity to have a little talk with my officer, to ascertain what he intended to do with me. With a sigh of relief, he said:

"Why, sir, I shall have to leave the matter entirely with the officer who gave you this pass."

That wasn't very comforting, but I didn't say that I felt it was the very worst thing that could befall me; but, instead, I spoke up: "That will be all right. I shall be glad to get away from this place as soon as possible."

"Oh, yes; we will see you safely to our headquarters."

Then giving some directions to the sergeant of his squad to get ready to move, he turned again to me and said, kindly:

"I am sorry that I have no horse for you, sir; and, as we are now detained considerably, I will ride on ahead. These two men will come on more leisurely with you."

That was one good point--the chances for escape were increased three-fourths, or in direct ratio to the reduction of my body-guard, or escort from eight to two.

I was inside the Rebel pickets again, and they had been made more alert, and would be more watchful after their carelessness of the night previous. This, with the fact that I had been scrutinized by so many soldiers on that morning ride through their lines and camps, would make any attempt to escape in that direction doubly dangerous; therefore I concluded I should try to quietly get away from these two soldiers at the first favorable opportunity; if I succeeded, I should not dare to attempt passing that picket-line a second time, especially in daylight.

It was quite a relief to me to say good-by to the old bushwhacker and his crowd of Rebs from my seat on the rear end of the horse. He had something to say about "not coming back that way again," as we rode off. They detained our companion a moment or two, while I imagined they poured into his head some cautions or directions about taking care of me. When he caught up to us, he said, laughingly: "Them fellows think you are a bad man."

This was thought to be too funny for anything; and to keep up the joke, I grabbed my man around the stomach and called on him to surrender to me at once, or I'd pull his hair.

We trotted along the road in this laughing humor for a mile or so; my heart was not in the laughing mood, but I, like the broken-hearted and distressed comedian on the stage, was playing a part, and, in a greater sense than theirs, my "living" depended upon my success in acting the character well.

At one point in the road my comrade had dismounted for awhile, and kindly gave me the bridle-rein to hold. I was then in possession of the horse, he was afoot, his gun standing by a fence-corner, and himself on the other side of the fence. This was a pretty good chance for a horse-race with the other fellow, who was still mounted, but he had the advantage of holding a carbine and a belt full of pistols, while I was unarmed. I wasn't afraid of his guns. I took in the situation at once, and would like very much to be able give the reader a thrilling account of a race inside the Rebel lines, but the hard facts are--I was afraid to undertake it. I had discovered at the foot of the hill, near a stream of water, in the direction in which we were going, the smoke of a camp, and probably a road guard was over the little bridge.

These soldiers, I knew, would halt me with a volley from their muskets, especially if I should come tearing down with an armed Rebel shouting after me. On the other side, toward the out lines, the course would lead me back into the Rebel camps and past the old bushwhacker's house we had recently left, and I preferred going to headquarters to getting back into their clutches again.

When my man remounted and I surrendered the reins to him, I observed that, if I had wanted to have gone back, or to run off with his horse, I could have done it, and at least had a race with our companion; they had not thought of the danger at all, and were both tickled at this evidence of my good intention; neither of them had seen the infantry guard ahead of us, which was the only obstacle to my attempting to carry out this "good intention."

We trotted and walked further down the hill and passed inside the guard; in going up the next hill, I proposed relieving the horse by walking a little; this was readily granted, and I slipped off on to the road and stretched my legs in training for a run, if a chance offered. I remarked jokingly to the soldiers, who rode along leisurely, that they had better watch me close; that, as we were now inside of about three lines of pickets, or road guards, being such a dangerous fellow, I might fly back over their heads into the Yankee's lines.

This sort of pleasantry seemed to keep them in an easy frame of mind, and they began to act as if they were ashamed of the fact, that two heavily-armed men on horseback should be necessary to guard one unarmed boy on foot. One of the men discovered a house standing back from the road, at which they proposed getting water for their horses and ourselves, so we all turned into the little road leading right up to the place.

Our first inquiry was met at the kitchen door, in answer to his request for a cup to drink from, by a real neat, young, colored gal, whose laughing, happy face showed a mouthful of beautiful teeth while the red struggling through the black showed a beautiful cherry color in her lips.

Both the boys were attracted, and began immediately, in the true Southern chivalrous style, to make themselves agreeable to the "likely gal." I didn't have anything to say. The other two fellows kept up the fun for quite a little while, becoming every moment more and more interested, and actually became jealous of each other. I saw that this was likely to be my opportunity and encouraged the performance. While they were both dismounted and "resting" on the old back porch buzzing the gal, I carelessly observed that I'd go around to a little out building. They had gained so much confidence in me that my proposition was assented to without a word, or even a nod; and the boys both sat still, while I unconcernedly walked around the corner of the house.

How long they sat there and talked I do not know, and what became of the two good boys in gray will never be told by me.

As far as their history is concerned in this story, it closes with this scene on the back porch of the old house.

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Chapter XIII

ONE MORE ESCAPE--"YANKING" THE TELEGRAPH WIRES--"ON TO RICHMOND!"--A CLOSE SHAVE.

Apparently there were "no men folks" about the house at the time of our morning visit. However, through a window, I saw the white cap of an old lady, whose bright eyes shone through her large-rimmed specs intently on the group that sat on her back porch.

I had taken observations every foot of our march during the morning, with an eye single to the main chance, when the opportunity should offer, to escape from the guard--either to run or to hide from pursuit. Under such conditions, one's wits take on a keen edge. Directly back of the house, but on the other side of two open fields, was the edge of a wood that extended a long way in both directions. This wood was the timber or inclosed land down in the "hollow" or bottom, as they term the low lands, while the road on which we were traveling stretched in almost a straight line over the higher ground.

Once around the corner of the house, I stopped a moment to take in the situation. I saw at a glance that the wood was my only chance, because cavalry could not follow me on horseback through the undergrowth, where I could go on foot. I felt equal to both of them--except the guns.

A dividing fence ran along the fields toward the house, and quickly scaling this, I turned for a look back, then thinking of the doubly dangerous risk of a second capture while attempting to escape, being actually in the enemy's army, I was nerved to desperation and made a break for liberty, feeling that I could almost fly. I ran like a pursued deer.

I took off my hat--I don't know why, but I always take off my hat when anything desperate is to be attempted. I didn't stop to pray in a fence-corner, but, in a half-stooping position, so as to keep under cover of the fence, I ran like a deer along that old stake-and-rider fence, and I made, I know, as good time as ever boy did in a race after hounds. In the middle of the field an old negro man was working alone. I stopped for a moment when I saw him, but as I was, luckily, on the opposite side of the fence from him, he did not see me. This old moke had a dog along with him--they all have dogs. I was more afraid of the dog than of guns. This black apparition in my path to the woods necessitated a slight change of direction, to avoid him, as well as the scent of the mangy-looking old dog, that I imagined was "pointing" me.

I was soon under the hill, from where I stopped a minute to look back. I could see only the top of the house that I had just left, and I knew they could not see me; so, leaving the protecting shadow of the fence, I struck boldly across the field in a direction leading furthest away from the old coon and his dog, in a course toward headquarters, the same in which we had been traveling. I knew, or at least imagined, that, immediately on discovering my escape, they would naturally think that I would return, or that I should at least try to make toward their front, and again try to escape into the Yankee lines.

This was their mistake. My plan had been deliberately formed before hand to do precisely the opposite thing--which was to run ahead, or toward the Rebel headquarters, trusting to the chances of putting pursuers off my scent, and hoping to lose my identity in the crowd among the Rebel camps.

Like the hunted fox, my tracks zigzagged me back to the road we intended to follow, but brought me out ahead of the house. Before risking myself on the road a second time, I peered through the fence cautiously, from whence I could see up and down the road for a long way. The coast was entirely clear; and, cautiously crawling through the lower bar of the fence, I did not run across the road; no, indeed, I crawled across on my hands and knees, like a hog, so that I might the better avoid any chance of observation, and, in the same ignominious style, I hogged it through the lower panel of the fence on the other side. Once safely over the road, I quickly changed my character from the swinish quadruped to the biped; and, without turning to look either to the right or to the left, I crawled along that fence right alongside of the road, in as speedy a manner as was possible.

It was more luck than good management on my part that I had been forced back on to and over the road by the presence of the black man and his dog. In pursuit they would naturally follow, but the old man would be sure to swear that I had not gone in the direction that I had been obliged to take, because he had been there all the time and had not seen me.

While the two clever cavalrymen were probably skirmishing around on their horses along the road, or through the fields to their front, looking after me, I was rapidly traveling in a course directly opposite, and they would not be likely to suspect that I had crossed the road.

There were no woods on the side of the fence or road on which I had placed myself, and I was obliged to keep close to the fence, and followed right alongside of the road for quite a long way.

At the bottom of the hill was a dry run; that is, there was a gravelly bed over which a small stream should have coursed, but the water was not there in August, 1861. The banks were, however, pretty well shaded or covered with a light undergrowth of willows, or some such trees as usually are seen in these situations. It was a good chance for me to get away from the road fence, so I ran along the run-bed toward the south, under the protection of the shady undergrowth. There were no signs of life along this stream; it was deserted both by the water and the things that live in and above the water.

Its course led me a long way from the road. After successfully passing a house, which was near the top of the hill, at a safe distance, unobserved, I got into a second wood and lay down on the ground for a much-needed rest.

I did not dare to stop long in any one place, knowing only too well that, when my guard should report that he had lost his prisoner, the Rebel cavalry about headquarters would be sent out to search for me, with probable orders to all guarded points to keep an especial lookout for a person of my description. I could not stay in the wood, though I could best conceal myself there, because I knew that I would famish. I was already in real distress for want of a drink of water, and, as I lay there in the wood, my brain began to conjure up all sorts of torments. I imagined that the dry bed of the stream over which I had been stumbling was mocking me with an appearance of moisture.

If any who chance to read this have ever had a couple of hours violent exercise in a dusty country, on a hot August day, and longed for a drink of water, they may appreciate my misery. I don't imagine that I can convey in words any conception of the suffering, the intense suffering one may experience for a drop of water, when they can't get it. The experience will almost drive one wild. I believe this, because, on more than one occasion, I have seen the demon of this anguish look into my eyes with the wild glare of the frenzied maniac.

The drizzling rain of the morning had given way to a sultry, close noon, and as I lay panting in the shade of the wood, the sun hung out like a huge, blazing copper ball, and poured down his fiercest heat. I thought of the beautiful, clear, cold spring on the hill-side back of my father's house, in Pennsylvania, where I had so often, when a boy, been sent for a bucket of water, and had so reluctantly obeyed, thinking it a great hardship to be compelled to throw out a whole bucket of good water just because it wasn't fresh and cold. I would have given anything in the world for just one chance to be a better boy at home, and solemnly pledged myself never to kick again on my turn at going for water.

I called up involuntarily all the soda fountains I had ever seen in the cities, and became frenzied over the idea that I began to hear in my mind the buzzing noise of the little sprays of water that were always to be heard dashing against the glass case. Unable to stand it any longer, I got up and made a break for water, determined that I must find it at any risk.

In this condition of mind I trotted along slowly, like a hunted wolf, with his tongue hanging out. Let's see. I've compared myself to a monkey riding on the rear end of a horse; a deer stalking behind the fence; a fox with zigzag tracks being chased by a dog; a hog under a fence; and now it's a chased wolf. I hope to exhaust Noah's Ark before I complete the story, and am trying to keep the score in view.

I found a pool of water on the outer edge of the wood. There had been a spring about there some place at some time. If there had been any hogs about they would have found it first and utilized it as a bath; as it was, it was partly covered with a greenish slime. I had spent some time in Texas, where it only rains once in seven years, and had learned, while traveling about that country, that the green scum is considered an indication of good water. That's a fact. A Texan will always prefer to take a drink from a pool on which there is this scum. So, in my distress, for the want of a drink--of anything, so it was water or something wet--I eagerly skimmed a place large enough to poke my nose and mouth into, and sucked into my parched throat a long drink of the warm stuff.

I had also learned another drinking trick in Texas, which is--always to hold your breath as long as possible after taking a drink of what they call water, in order to conceal as far as possible the taste in the mouth which necessarily follows the nauseous dose.

But we must hurry along and get out of the woods with the story. I reached, after considerable dodging, a railroad. I judged it was the Manassas road, leading from Alexandria past Fairfax Station back toward Manassas. I was not sure of my location, but I was glad enough to strike a railroad-track, because I knew that cavalry could not travel on ties as fast as I could, and I hoped, too, that it would afford me some chance to get away from the cussed country more rapidly.

I didn't dare walk the track, but I followed along it for quite a long way. At one point, where there was a long, straight line, I discovered some distance ahead a soldier on guard. I imagined it was a bridge or culvert guard, and I knew that I could not pass that point. While getting ready to go around them, I observed that the telegraph wire, which had become destroyed and was repaired at one point, was quite low; the men who had done the work had evidently not been able to climb a pole, and had left it hanging over the bushes. The sight of the wire in this shape, put into my head the idea that it would be well enough to destroy their communication right there, and prevent the use of that means of spreading information about a spy being loose in their camps.

Getting to one side of the bushes, I easily got hold of the wire from my position on the ground, and, hauling it as far as possible to one side, after hastily glancing up and down the road to see that no one was near to observe me, I "yanked," or by a dexterous "twist of the wrist," which a wire-man understands, I was able to break the wire, which, the minute the tension was removed, suddenly flew apart, making the adjoining poles resound with the vibration. I was frightened at the consequence of my act and dodged hastily into the shelter of the wood.

It was possible for me, as an expert telegrapher, to have drawn the ends of the wire together, and, by simply tapping them together, to have sent by this simple method a message of defiance to General Beauregard. I suspect that this story would be enlivened somewhat by such a trick, but it don't come in here. It was successfully played afterward while I was on Stoneman's raid to Richmond's outskirts; but the truth is, that I was too badly scared to think of such a thing at this time. The accident, if I may so term it, served me a good turn in one or two ways; first, it destroyed communication for the time, and it brought about a valuable means to the end of assisting my escape, but it was not a safe place to loiter.

It occurred to me that I might be able to pass the bridge, and thus get over the stream safely, by assuming the role of a telegraph line repairman, carrying some loose wire. The wires were being frequently broken by the rough pounding of the poles by mule drivers, and repairmen were no doubt often being sent out to fix up the breaks. In this capacity I knew I would be looked upon as belonging to a sort of privileged class, as they now are, riding free on the rear end of the railway trains, while we all know a telephone man will walk right through the best and biggest house to get on to the roof to fix a break, as if he had an inborn right to go anywhere he chose.

Breaking from one of the hanging ends of the wire a long piece, I coiled it in shape that linemen carry, and putting it over my neck, I started boldly down the track. I had no climbers, but I was able to personate an amateur repairman who had been suddenly pressed into the service, on account of a great emergency, who must travel rapidly as possible in search of a broken wire.

My story passed me safely over the bridge and past the guards stationed at several points on the track. I traveled rapidly in the direction farthest from the break. By the same bold trick I was able to get through several camps that were close by the tracks.

There were no trains running on that part of the road at that time, or I should have, probably, been tempted to boldly stop an engine and get on; as I had often seen linemen on the Pennsylvania Railroad thus picked up from the road by accommodating engineers. I knew, of course, that the trick would not last long; that the moment the wires had separated the operators would know of some sort of a break out on their line, and would at once take the necessary steps to test for the location of the accident; and, of course, men would be sent out as speedily as possible to repair the damage. I ran the additional risk, too, of meeting with some of those bona fide linemen, who would question my authority.

In the manner in which I have tried to describe, the greater part of this eventful day was spent, until along about an hour before sundown, when I came to a road crossing the railway. I now seemed to have gotten through, or beyond, Manassas, in the rear of the Rebel Army, toward Richmond, as there were no further guards at the crossings. I discovered, by encouraging a trackman in a short talk, that the road crossing the tracks led off in a direct course to Falmouth and Fredericksburg and Richmond. After a little further inquiry as to a suitable house at which to apply for something to eat, I left the track, taking the dusty summer road "on to Richmond."

I felt, as I walked along this narrow road, which was seemingly cut through a thicket of small saplings, so common in that country, that I had escaped, and was safe once more. My belief was, that I had not only eluded pursuit but that I had put those whom I knew would be sent to find me on the wrong scent.

I was tired, very tired, and as I had eaten nothing at all since the hasty breakfast at the bushwhacker's house, when I didn't have appetite enough to swallow a mouthful, I was, of course, hungry. I hadn't a cent of money, either, and what could I do but beg, and this I would not do. Again my good angel came to my relief by suggesting a ruse, to further aid my escape and, at the same time, perhaps, create a sympathy for myself.

I had, in assuming the character of a lineman, thrown away my coat, in order to relieve myself of the burden of carrying it along in the hot sun, and to further carry out the impression that I was a workingman without a coat.

I had walked so much and so rapidly that my left foot had become swollen, so that I was obliged to go along at a limping gait. I took advantage of this accident to further add to the change in my appearance, by assuming a lameness that apparently obliged me to depend upon the use of two sticks to hobble along.

I had been obliged to take off my tight left shoe, and around the swollen foot I tenderly tied the greater portion of my shirt, which I had, of course, first torn off the narrative end. In this shape, walking between two sticks, with my foot tied up as if it had recently gone through a surgical operation, I jogged along down the sandy, dusty road which was leading toward Fredericksburg and Richmond.

Along in the evening I ran into a clearing, at the far end of which was nestled a little old-fashioned house. It was one of those country farmhouses where the roof extends down beyond the house and forms a lower shed or porch roof, which runs along, both at the back and the front, the whole length of the house.

Opening on to the roof were two dormer windows of the old-fashioned kind, that we don't often see nowadays.

I marched boldly--if limpingly--through the picket gate, up the straight path in front of the house door, and, assuming to be suffering dreadfully from my "wound," I asked the old man--another old bushwhacker--for a drink of water. He didn't fly around with any great alacrity to wait on the "poor soldier,"--that isn't the style of hospitality for poor whites in Virginia--but the old cuss did order a colored boy to bring some water.

"Right away; do you hyar?"

I was just dying for a chance to operate on the old fellow's sympathy, with a view to "accepting his hospitality" for the night, or to the extent of a supper, at least, but I had come up to his door a poor wounded soldier on foot, and the second-class Virginia gentleman has no use for a poor man, even if he should be a wounded Rebel soldier, who had come all the way from Texas to defend his home, etc., etc.

If I had ridden up to his house as a blatant Rebel officer, on horseback, everything his house contained would have been officiously placed at my disposal without a word of question.

As it was, the old rascal began to ask questions, and was so disagreeable, too, in his manner, that a young man, who had come up from the barn, and who I judged to be his son, found it necessary to answer for me, and in a way that put the old man down.

Being thus encouraged by the son, the old lady took a hand in behalf of the "poor soldier," and endeavored in a kind, motherly way to make me more comfortable. I had told them that I had been slightly wounded in the foot, but the wound did not properly heal, and I had been tired and sick lying about the hospital camp, and had determined on my own account to get out to the country some place, for a day or two. I was particular to impress on the mind of the sour old man, that I was not a beggar--that I'd pay for all I got, etc. Now, I didn't have a cent of money, and if that old man had demanded a settlement after supper, I should have been sadly left; but I was going to stay all night, and return to camp for a pass the next day. The old man had said that they all had their orders from the army officers not to entertain any soldiers who couldn't produce passes. To this I replied that, "I had thoughtlessly overlooked the matter, but could easily fix that the next morning, when I'd return."

We had a good supper; the old lady's sympathies were aroused, and she set out her little delicacies for the

"Poor Texas boy, who was so far from home."

I was just hungry enough to have eaten everything they had prepared for the whole family; but, as I was on my good behavior, you know, by a mighty effort and struggle with the inner man I was able to postpone my appetite. There was only the old man, his wife, and the big lubberly son, and a colored mammy in the house. They were evidently "poor white trash," but they owned one slave, so old that she was like a broken-down horse or cow--very cheap.

I heard the old man talking earnestly to the son, and I imagined, of course, that the conversation was about myself--at such a time one's fears are aroused by every little incident.

"Trifles light as air, become proofs as strong as Holy Writ."

"Oh, no; you're mistaken, Father! Why, the poor fellow can't walk."

"But," replied the gruff voice of the old man, "he don't know where his regiment is."

Without further words the young fellow walked off. When the old man came back to the porch, where I had been sitting telling the old lady a sorrowful tale about my home, etc., he began:

"Where did you say you got your wound?"

"Why, it was a trifling hurt on the instep; it only became troublesome because I couldn't keep from using my foot."

Then the old lady chipped in with:

"Shall I send Mammy to help you bathe it with warm water, before you go to bed?"

I declined this with profuse thanks, and begged that they would not trouble themselves about it; it was a mere trifle.

After some more questions from the old man, which I was able to parry, I was ready for bed, glad enough to get away from him, and determined to clear out as soon as possible. They put me into a room which was in the attic, which extended across the width of the house; from this room there were windows opening on to the roof before described (two dormer windows), one in front and the other directly opposite, opening onto the roof of the porch. Before getting ready to lie down, I took a good look at the surroundings from both of these windows. I had become so accustomed to this, going to bed in the enemy's country, not knowing the condition in which I should find myself when I'd waken, that it became a sort of a habit with me to take my bearings, that I might be able to escape in case of fire.

I didn't "dress" my wound exactly, or undress myself for bed; in fact, there was nothing that I could strip off but the trousers, one shoe and a hat. With these all on, I lay down on top of the old-fashioned, cord bedstead, and, as described by some of the smart sayings that we used for texts in our copy-books at school--"Consider each night how you have spent the past day, and resolve to do better the next." Its awfully easy to get up these texts, but it's sometimes a little bit troublesome to apply the same thing to every-day life. I "resolved" easily enough to do better the following day--if I could. I wanted to get out of that country very badly, because I knew, as before stated, that the whole Rebel Army at Manassas would be on guard for spies at once.

My one hope was to get to Richmond and escape by some other route. While "resolving" further in my mind how to get along down that road in the morning, without this old man getting after me for my supper and lodging bill, I almost fell asleep. I was so tired that I could scarcely keep awake, yet I was afraid to trust myself in sleep.

The folks in the house had all been in bed some time; the lights were out, and everything became ominously quiet. My quick ear detected horses neighing and tramping, and an occasional voice in the night air reached my ear; but, as the sound seemed to die away so soon, I began to think myself mistaken, and was about to surrender myself to sleep, when aroused again by what was unmistakably horses galloping along the road. I quickly, but painfully, jumped up from the bed, and stole quietly over to the front window just in time to see a troop of horsemen come up. They were about to ride rapidly past when one of the fellows in the rear file called out: "Here's a house."

There was the jangling that always follows a sudden halt of cavalry, especially when following each other closely on a dark night. Some voices, in the nature of interrogations from an officer to his command, and a halt was made some little distance down the road past the house.

Two of the men wheeled and rode toward the front of the house, and, after looking about the grounds, talking in a tone of voice that did not admit of my getting distinctly the purport of the remarks, they both galloped back together to the command, which they had left standing in the road. I breathed freer, hoping they had decided to let us alone.

It would never do for that old man to have a chance to explain, in his way, my presence in the house. I felt devoutly thankful for the lucky escape I had again made, and had about concluded in my own mind to clear out silently, without the Virginia formality of saying good-by to my host, when I saw, with horror, that the whole troop had turned about and were walking their horses slowly back toward the house. I stood by the front dormer window of the old house, and you may imagine how eagerly I watched their every movement.

The officer in command halted his troop and, calling a trooper by name, said:

"Sergeant, you go up to the house and ask if they have seen any strangers along this road."

That was enough for me. I left that window as suddenly as if a gun had been pointed at me, and ran across the little room to the back window; it was open, the night being so warm, the sash held up by the customary window-stick. I got myself through the window with celerity and was about to let myself slide down the roof slowly to the eaves, so that I might catch on there and allow myself to further gently drop down on to one of the supporting posts, where I could slide down to the ground. Stretching myself out in a feeling way on the roof, still holding on to the window sill, almost afraid to let go, when down came the window-sash striking me across the wrist so suddenly and severely that I involuntary let go my hold and, of course, slid down the roof feet foremost like a sled on an iced track, landing kerslop over the side on to the ground. In my sudden descent I had caught hold of a lot of Virginia creepers that were trained up to the side of the back porch and had pulled them down with me, and lay for an instant all tangled up in them.

If there is anything that will startle a man or a woman it is the sudden fall of a window-sash, because, in most cases, it makes such an infernal noise and does so little damage; but, in this case, luckily for me, perhaps, my poor hand was made to answer the purpose of a buffer and deadened the sound of the falling sash, otherwise it might have fallen, as sashes always do, and the noise have attracted the notice of the cavalrymen, who were on the road at the other side of the house. My quick shute from the up-stairs of the little old house to the ground was softened a little by the mass of vines that I had carried down with me.

The house only stood between me and a troop of pursuing cavalrymen. Quickly realizing my precarious predicament, I gathered myself up, and, for a poor wounded crippled Texan with two canes, I made most elegant time, considering the darkness, straight back to the barnyard into the wood beyond. What happened at the house I never learned, as I did not stop to hear another word spoken.

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Chapter XIV

ON TO RICHMOND--A NIGHT OF TERROR--A GHASTLY FIND IN THE WOODS--ATTACKED BY BLOODHOUNDS--OTHER MIRACULOUS ESCAPES--FIRST VISIT TO FREDERICKSBURG--A COLLECTION TAKEN UP IN A CHURCH IN VIRGINIA FOR THE "BOY SPY"--ARRIVES IN RICHMOND.

When I heard the officer in command of the cavalry party give instructions to his Sergeant to inquire "if any strangers had been seen about there," I jumped to the conclusion that it was a detachment of Rebel cavalry that had been sent after me. It may have been that this party had received general instructions only--to look out for all strangers traveling over the roads; but I knew full well that the old man would make such a reply to any inquiries as would excite their suspicion and put me to the dangerous test of an examination.

In sliding off the back-porch roof so suddenly, I had further injured my already tired and swollen foot; but I seemed to forget all about it for the time, and ran off as lively as if I were just out of bed after a refreshing sleep.

I believe that they did not discover the "presence" of an enemy for some time after I had gotten off, or until the old man had been roused from his sleep; and I imagined, after a parley with him, the officer would accompany him to my room in the garret for the purpose of interviewing their guest.

What they thought when they found the bed empty, and nothing left of the poor Texas cripple but his two improvised crutches, I must leave to imagination.

I ran through the darkness wildly, recklessly, as fast as I could, scarcely knowing whither I was going, only feeling that each jump or step led me further from the cavalrymen. The night was quite dark. My course led me across a plowed field to a fence over which I climbed quickly, and plunged into a thicket or wood of small pine trees.

Once into this cover, I plodded along slowly, being obliged to pick my steps. It was blind traveling, and I avoided running into the briar bushes that are so plentiful in that part of Virginia. Through this thicket, every step, to my frightened wits, seemed sure to betray my presence by the breaking or snapping of the twigs and bushes.

I didn't know where it would lead me, but I could not for the life of me keep still a single moment. I felt impelled by some unseen power to keep going on, on--how long I dodged and scratched through the bushes and briars can not be told. I only remember that every few steps I would be obliged to halt, having run my face against some low, thorny limb of the heavy growth of saplings, that would almost bring the tears to my eyes from the smart pains inflicted. I carried my hat in my hand, as I always do when I'm hard-pressed, and my long hair, like that of Absalom, gave me a great deal of additional trouble.

I was soon beyond sight or sound of the cavalrymen, whom I had left in the road. I desired to keep near the roads leading toward Fredericksburg. I assumed that, in pursuing, these men would naturally imagine I had taken the back track to reach the railroad.

I sometimes almost despaired of getting far enough away from the house to prevent capture before daylight would come. When I'd stop for a few moments to untangle myself from the bushes, or to feel my way over a fallen tree, I'd imagine that the curious noises that every one hears in the stillness of the night in the woods were the echoes of the pursuing Rebels.

I feared above all things else that they would procure from some of the neighboring houses some dogs--bloodhounds, perhaps--that would be used to track me through the thicket. In this way a most miserable night passed.

Though I say it, who should not, I had less fear of the Rebels in arms than of the dogs. In all my adventures in their camps, I had preserved secretly, next to my body, the little Colt's five-shooter revolver. I knew how to use it. There were the five loads yet in it, that I had put in before leaving Pennsylvania, and I had resolved that four of them would be used against either Rebels or bloodhounds and the fifth would relieve me from further pursuit.

I admit freely that I was frightened; indeed, I was scared half to death, and would have given the world and all that was in it, if it were mine, to have gotten out of the miserable scrape in which I had voluntarily placed myself. Under such conditions even a frightened boy will become desperate.

I had deliberately determined to sell my life as dearly as possible, and, if they had not killed me, I should most certainly have done the business for myself rather than take any further chances in their hands. This is the way I was feeling while resting for a few moments on an old log.

A picture of myself would show a smooth-faced youngster sitting "like a knot on a log," dressed in three-fourths of a shirt, a pair of torn trousers, one shoe and a half, bare-headed, long tangled hair, and I imagine an expression of countenance that would closely resemble the "Wild Boy of the Woods." I had torn off the greater part of my shirt to bandage a sore foot the evening previously.

When a person is hunted down he can accomplish some wonderful feats in quick traveling, even if the difficulties to be overcome are distressingly innumerable.

I had forgotten all about the sore foot, on which I had limped to the house the night before. My wrist, on which the window sash had fallen, was most painful and threatened to give me trouble. Though I had been on a terrible jaunt for twenty-four hours previously, I did not at that time feel tired, sleepy, or even hungry.

There was the one idea in my head--to make all the speed possible, and increase the distance between myself and Manassas. I had come upon a peculiarly sickening smell, that made me a little sick at the stomach, when all of a sudden I was startled, and my blood chilled, by a rustling noise in front of me; glancing ahead, in a terror of fright, I saw gleaming through the darkness something that I thought and believed might be the glaring eyes of a bloodhound. That dread was in my mind, but in the next instant the eyes had disappeared; with a rushing, rustling noise, the object, whatever it was that owned the terrible eyes, ran off through the woods.

For the moment I was so stunned that I could scarcely move forward or backward; but, on second thought, realizing it was probably some wolfish dog that I had surprised while feeding upon the carcass of a dead sheep, I gathered courage to move ahead. As it was in my path, I was obliged to approach it, despite the sickening odor which was everywhere around. In a hot, sultry August night it was like--well, old soldiers can imagine what it was like. Desirous of avoiding the stench as much as possible, I was climbing over a log rather than walk too close to where I supposed the eyes had been; hurrying along, holding my breath, with one hand to my nose, what was my horror to find that I had stepped from the top of the log right down on to the decaying body of--a man! O, horror of horrors! I can not write of it. I've never even told the story to my best friends. It has been too dreadful to contemplate; but the naked, disgusting facts are, that I stepped down on to the soft object--my foot slipped, as it would from a rotten, slimy substance, throwing me partly down, as I had one hand on my nose, and, in my efforts to recover myself, plunged both my hands into the soft, decaying flesh of the head, causing the hair to peel off the scalp.

What did I do? What would you have done? I was, for that moment in my life, as wild as ever lunatic could be; and can not remember further than that I ran straight ahead toward the road, which I had been so careful to avoid, and, after reaching it, I scaled the fence, like a scared dog, at two bounds, and ran--oh dear me--I didn't care what I should meet after that. My steps were long and quick, and it was not until I was completely exhausted that I stopped for a rest. I rubbed my hands in the dusty road; I polished the shoe in the dust of the road that had slipped off the slimy bones, but the smell would not out; it seemed to penetrate everything; and I became deathly sick from the exhaustion. The experience of that hour had so turned my head and stomach that I was as weak and helpless as a child. In this condition I lay down in a fence-corner, not able to hold my head up another moment. Perhaps I fainted, but I claim never to have fainted.

I know that the dreadful object was a half-buried man. I know this, because some of his hair was in the sleeve of my shirt the next day. I don't feel like writing anything more about it, and will dismiss it with the theory which I subsequently entertained: that it was most likely the unburied body of a wounded Rebel, or, perhaps, an escaped Union prisoner who, like myself, after the recent battle of Manassas, had concealed himself in the thicket, and while in that condition he had probably taken sick, and being unable to procure any assistance, or to make his presence known, had died this lonely and unhappy death; and the wolves and dogs only had found his resting place--the log his only tombstone.

I lay curled up in the fence-corner for an hour or so. I imagined everything. Dear me! I might fill a book with the thoughts that whirled through my excited, feverish brain that dreadful night. I felt that this would be my fate. Every stick of wood became a snake, and they soon became so numerous that I was surrounded by them on all sides. The trees were a mass of living, laughing, bowing giants, who were there to laugh at my misery; and the noises--well, all know how a little frog can scare a big man when it darts into the puddle of water with a thug, especially if it's at night and he alone. I've often been scared by the suddenness of their jump, but that one night in particular it seemed as if all the wild animals in creation had gathered about that country, attracted by the smell from the distant battlefield of Manassas.

There were plenty of unburied and half-buried bodies all over the country about Manassas--the very air was laden with the odor from decaying horses, mules, etc. One can imagine far better than I can describe the sensations of an over-sensitive youth as he lay in a fence-corner of Virginia, forced to inhale the odor and obliged to hear all the dreadful noises that came out of the dark woods, and add to this the certain knowledge that, if I should become prostrated, then all hope of any relief for me from this veritable hell in Virginia would disappear.

As I lay there to add further to my cup of misery, I heard coming along the road, the tramp and gallop of horses. Lying on the ground one can hear the horses' feet a long way off, and I suffered in anticipation just so much the more. I imagined these were the same cavalrymen I had left at the house. This new danger served to rouse me partially, and raising my head a little, I got my trusty little Colt out of its concealment, and was ready for the end.

In truth I did not then care, and had become so perfectly desperate that I was ready and indeed almost anxious to be out of my misery.

They approached rapidly. I raised myself to a sitting posture, placed my back against the fence, cocked the pistol, and waited for their appearance. They trotted up, talking gaily among themselves and without seeing me, as their horses shied past. That was not very wonderful, because I was so close to the fence as to become covered by the shadow; the night was still too dark for objects to be seen at a short distance, especially from a rapidly-trotting horse.

The passing of this cavalry detachment before me, as I sat in the fence-corner, served to arouse my drooping spirits somewhat. The dust which they had raised had scarcely settled, and the sound of their horses' hoofs were yet to be heard, when I became imbued with a new strength and hope, realizing that there was yet some hope for my escaping.

I knew that it would be safe enough to follow along the road in the wake of that troop of cavalrymen; and the fact that there were no infantry pickets further along this road, was evident from the fact of the cavalry being out on this scout.

I stepped out into the road with renewed energy, glad enough to be moving to any place that would take me from the sight and smell of such scenes.

I don't know how long I walked. I remember very well that I found it necessary to stop every little while to rest. I was becoming so weak that I could scarcely hold my head up, and every time I'd sit down I'd involuntarily drop helplessly, and soon find myself going off to sleep on the roadside, being lulled to obliviousness by the queer, unearthly sounds from the wood--the effect being pretty much the same that I once experienced when taking laughing gas in a dentist's shop.

I roused myself often, each step with a greater effort, and had the daylight been delayed but a little longer I should have been obliged to succumb. The appearance of the gray dawn in the East seemed to me as a sign or token of encouragement, and from its appearance I took fresh courage and kept moving, as if impelled by an unseen power "on to Richmond."

It is said the darkest part of the night is just before the dawn; so I have always found it; and it has been my observation, too, that the safest time to scout is just before or at dawn; then all animal nature seem to sleep or, at least, be off their guard, thinking, perhaps, everybody else like themselves are sleepy.

This was one reason why I was able to travel some distance after the Rebel cavalrymen in such apparent safety. I knew that, if they returned along this road, I should be able to discover their approach a long time before they could get up to me, and could get out of the way. I judged rightly, too, that they would be the only trouble I should have to overcome, as it was evidently their assignment to look after that particular section.

Why didn't I get ahead of them? I didn't have a horse, and it was safer to follow them than have them follow me. They would ask at every house if a stranger had passed. In this way they had caught up to me once. Now they will be told at each house ahead of me that no one had been along that way.

That's the way I was arguing the question in my own mind that morning. I moved along rather hopefully, not intending under any circumstances to approach a house or to allow myself to be seen by any one.

But I was tired, weak and so hungry; and the best resolutions can be broken down by the pleasant odor of good cookery from a farmhouse, especially when it's wafted out to a poor hungry devil on the road.

I had discovered about sunrise some blue wood-smoke curling up over the tops of a little growth of trees to the side of the road yet some distance ahead. Knowing that I dare not approach from the road, I crawled wearily over the fence, and rather reluctantly began my old tactics of flanking the place and advancing in the rear of it. When I got through the woods and came to the opening nearest the house, I found myself almost behind it.

The house was larger than any that I had seen the previous evening, and I gathered from the appearance of several little outbuildings, which I judged were "quarters" for the negroes, that the place belonged to a well-to-do Virginia slave-owner. There was no smoke coming from the large house; it was from one of the little buildings that I supposed was an out-kitchen. The proprietors, or white folks, were evidently still asleep. An old aunty was prowling about the wood-yard gathering up chips.

The pangs of hunger and thirst were driving me pretty nearly wild, and, being so dreadfully weak and exhausted, I felt that I must have something to eat; that only a cup of coffee would do me for the rest of the day. But I must have something to eat to keep me alive. Desperate, and believing it to be the safest time to take the risk, I walked boldly out from my hiding place straight up to the quarters, determined to appeal to the old aunty, for a bite of something. She had gathered her apron full of chips and had gone back into the kitchen with them, so that I was able to follow her to the house unobserved, and was flattering myself that I had succeeded so well when all at once two dogs that I had not seen rushed savagely down the back yard toward me. I raised my two arms in a frightened way as they rushed on me; the foremost one sprang up, placing his feet on my breast and tried to reach my face or throat, but only succeeded in inserting his teeth in the fleshy part of the muscle of my left arm. As I had only the thin covering of the shirt, he tore this in a distressingly painful manner. I have the marks yet on that arm. The wound has been a painful one at many times during these twenty-five years; but the Pension Office regulations do not "compensate" for the bite of a bloodhound, so I have not mentioned it outside my own family.

The old colored woman rushed out, followed by her old man, who grabbed the dog by his hind legs and threw him over; the two other dogs, attracted by the scent of the dead man on my shoes and trousers, could scarcely be driven away from me.

The old woman kindly took me into the kitchen and washed the bloody arm, and bound it up with a piece of turban which she tore off for the purpose. Without asking any questions, I was given a cup of good black coffee and some hoe-cakes, which I gulped down with a relish.

These poor, ignorant, black people knew instinctively that they were succoring a friend, and at a very great risk to themselves; and to relieve them of any fear for their own safety, should their conduct be discovered, I told them the old, old story about being lost on the road, etc.

The old man, who had been watching out of the doorway as I ate my breakfast at the hearth, observed, knowingly:

"The master's folks isn't out of bed yet, but I specs dem sogers will want dey hosses, so I'se gwine along to de barn to feed, Liza."

The hint was sufficient, and to my hurried inquiry:

"Are there any cavalrymen at the house?"

"Yes, 'deed; dahs a whole company sleepin' on de front poach over dar."

"How long have they been here?" said I, putting down my cup.

"Dey comes hyar most every night, and sleeps on dat poach tel they get over breakfast."

That was sufficient. I had lost all pain in my arm; my hunger had been satisfied with less than half a breakfast, and, hastily thanking the old aunty, I made an excuse about not wanting them to know I was out of camp, and left--the shortest cut for the woods.

I was up to my pursuers, and had left them asleep on the porch, awaiting their breakfast. This would give me an hour's start ahead of them, and I gathered renewed courage from the belief that they would return from that point.

As I have heretofore said, I am not a believer in Spiritualism, but I have always felt convinced in my own mind that the dog was sent by a higher power to prevent me going up to the house where were sleeping a half a dozen or more Rebel cavalrymen.

I struggled along through the dreary, desolate, pine woods, skirting the roads and avoiding houses, suffering with my wounded foot, wrist and arm; fortunately the houses were not many, which allowed of my using the road more freely. It was along about noon, I think, when I reached the top of the hill at the old town of Falmouth, which overlooks Fredericksburg and vicinity. Here was an obstruction in the shape of the Rappahannock river, which had to be crossed by a ferry into Fredericksburg. Of course, everybody who crossed there would be scrutinized closely, so that their identity could be traced.

It may be asked, why did I not attempt to reach the Potomac from this place at this time. I don't know exactly why, except, perhaps, that I felt I was being impelled by some mysterious power to go to Richmond.

The Potomac was only about ten or twelve miles distant, but it was also four or five miles in width, and the Rebels controlled all the means of communication across to Maryland. Richmond was forty miles distant, and a railroad ran there from Fredericksburg.

Luckily for my purpose, a drove of horses, being steered by an old farmer and two colored men, made an appearance at the top of the hill leading into Falmouth. Seeing my chance, I asked one of the drivers to be allowed to ride an "empty" horse over the river. He consented, and in this way I rode down the hill, and we crossed the Rappahannock and entered Fredericksburg in August, 1861.

I had intended to stop at Fredericksburg and run the gauntlet of the railway trains into Richmond, but I found myself so comfortable, seated on the bare back of a horse, that I concluded to stay with the drove the balance of the day, so we passed right through the town and on down the main road to Richmond.

I felt reasonably safe from pursuit. Bloodhounds would not be able to track me that night, as they most certainly would when my presence at the colored shanty should become known.

The old uncle told me that the dog that bit me was a young bloodhound, and that the proprietor of the house kept a pack, and I suspected that the object of the officers in visiting him was to secure their use. But, in getting on a horse and crossing the river, I had eluded their scent, and felt safe enough from further danger in that direction. It was also fortunate for me that I was further able to disguise myself, by traveling the road in charge of a couple of colored men with a drove of horses that were being sent to Richmond for the army.

That evening, without further adventure or trouble, except that I began to suffer from my foot and arm, we reached an old-fashioned, out-of-the-way stopping place, called Hanover Court House, where the colored boys had been ordered to keep the horses over night.

They found entertainment in the quarters. I was received into the house as a wounded refugee soldier en route to Richmond, and treated in first-class shape by the old landlord and his kind wife.

I had a new story for them that took real well.

I slept soundly in a nice bed between the clean, white sheets. I am sure that I felt devoutly thankful for the home-like, pleasant change in my surroundings from the two preceding nights.

The agreeable change in my surroundings that remains most grateful in my memory is, that the kind-hearted and motherly old landlady, seeing my wounded, bleeding arm, which had soiled the whole side of my already pretty dirty shirt, at once waddled off to fathom from the depths of some bureau drawer a nice, clean, white shirt, and with it across her arm she marched back to my room almost out of breath, because she was so stout, saying:

"My dear, you must take off that shirt, which seems to be soiled by your wound; here is some fresh linen that you will please use."

The old gentleman, who though not so rotund as his wife was fully as kind, approvingly observed: "Why, of course, mother, that's right;" addressing me courteously, "Is there anything else we can do to make you comfortable, sir?"

Thanking them profusely and perhaps tearfully, I asked only for a little warm water, before retiring, that I might bathe and dress my wounded arm--to which request the old lady called out:

"Chloe, have some warm water brought here at once--you hyar?" She "hyard." While I was yet telling these dear old people some of the most bare-faced lies about myself being a wounded refugee from Maryland, etc., Chloe waddled into the room with a bowl of water in one hand and a couple of towels across her black arm.

Her appearance interrupted for the time the flow of yarns, as both the old gentleman and lady excused themselves, first directing "Aunty" to help the "young gentleman to dress his wound."

Aunty stood up in front of me with both sleeves rolled up, as if ready for a fight, when I should strip off the old shirt, which was sticking closer than a brother to the sore spots. But Aunty very kindly helped me as tenderly as she could, and when my torn, inflamed arm was exposed she could not refrain from uttering a cry of sympathy, and wanted at once to go down to bring up the "Missus" to see it. I would not allow her to do that, and, with her aid, I washed as well as I could, and was about to pull the shirt on over it, when, without asking my consent, old Aunty marched out of the room, saying: "Ise gwine get Missus put sothin on dat arm," and disappeared. Very soon the old lady embarrassed me by walking boldly into the room; and, after a few motherly words of sympathy, she took hold of me, as if I were a half-naked baby, and turned me around for her inspection. Then giving a few words of direction to "Aunty" to bring certain articles, she took motherly control of me, and for the time I became as a child in her hands, and was put to bed after my wound had been carefully dressed and wrapped by her own kind hands.

The old gentleman made an appearance, too, with some medicine for the inner man, which I swallowed like an obedient child.

We had, previously, had some supper. I was, of course, profoundly thankful for their kind attention, but was at last ordered, in the same kindly way: "Don't talk another bit, but go to sleep!" and I did not require much inducement to court the drowsy goddess. That night no unpleasant dreams disturbed my heavy slumber. The ghost of the horrible, unburied soldier, on which I had stumbled the previous night, did not haunt me. I was dead to everything for the time, and slept as soundly as a child.

The sun was shining brightly through the windows of my bedroom, on a beautiful Sunday morning, in August, 1861, when I was roused from this refreshing slumber by the voice of the old "aunty"--

"Missus says you'd better have some toast and egg, and a cup of coffee, den you can sleep some moah."

There is nothing that will rouse a sleeper so quick as the invitation to breakfast, especially if the sleeper has not been over-fed and surfeited. Toast and egg is a weakness with me even now, and when I heard the delectable words, "toast, egg, and coffee," I was wide-awake in an instant. But when I attempted to turn myself, so that I could see who had spoken these magic words that suggested such an agreeable aroma, I found that I was so sore and so much bruised that the attempt to move started through my whole frame twitches of sharp pain. "Aunty," seeing that I was awake, came closer to my bed, and, in a kindly way, asked:

"How is you dis mornin'?"

In attempting again to move, I was forced to cry out with the pain which the exertion caused. Aunty bade me, "Jis you lie dar; I'll fetch your coffee!" And walked out leaving me alone; and for the few moments all my distress and trouble came upon me like a sudden cloud, as I realized upon waking that I was yet in the enemy's country, far enough from home, while between us was almost the insurmountable obstacle of the Rebel Army. I saw, too, that the heretofore unexpected danger of a spell of serious sickness was now liable to be added to my other troubles and difficulties. These gloomy forebodings were dispelled for the moment by a gentle knock at my door and the kindly appearance of the mother of the house, upon my invitation to come in, who, with a pleasant "Good-morning," walked up to my bed and placed her hand upon my forehead. Without asking a question, she said:

"Why, you are ever so much better than I expected to find you this morning."

This was pleasant news for me to be sure, as I had not speculated at all on being sick. When with a few more kind words she left me, I heard the landlord say:

"Mother, don't be in a hurry; wait till I give the young gentleman his medicine, before he takes breakfast." When he came into my room a moment later--I was trying to bathe my face--with a cheery "Good-morning, sir; I hope you rested well, sir; just take this if you please, sir;" and I had to obey; "We will send over after the doctor to come and attend you, sir."

I became alarmed at this, fearing that their kindly feeling toward the distressed refugee would cause them to introduce to me some Confederate surgeon from the neighborhood, who might make a correct "diagnosis" of my case and expose me. I begged that he would not put himself to that trouble; that I should go right into Richmond and would soon be among plenty of friends who would take care of me, etc. He rather insisted that it was their privilege to care for me, and that they could not consent to my undertaking to travel to Richmond until I had sufficiently recuperated. I thanked him; but am afraid that I did not convince the old gentleman that it was not necessary. He left me with the understanding that it should be "As mother says about it."

But the circumstances rather dissipated my appetite for the breakfast, as I saw at once that it would be necessary for me to get away from them as soon as possible. A new trouble seemed to rise from the kind attention of this old couple. While I feared capture and detection on my account, I actually think that I dreaded most of all lest an exposure should happen while I was enjoying their hospitality. I could not think of having to confront these kind people, if I should be brought to bay, so it was that I made up my mind that I must leave their house the very first opportunity. I had not been questioned in the least particular except as to my comfort and health. These people were too cultured and refined to pry into my history before granting any aid; it was enough for them that I had stated that I was a Maryland refugee, who had been wounded and was en route to Richmond to find friends. They saw my crippled condition, and they gave me all the aid and comfort that was in their power.

Seeing an old-fashioned inkstand and quill on a small table in my room, I had the aunty draw it up close to my bed, from which I was to eat my breakfast. The drawer contained a supply of paper, and, taking advantage of the first favorable opportunity, I wrote, when alone, the form of a pass, such as I had seen in general use, and signed it in an official way with the name of a well-known Chief-of-Staff.

There was unfortunately no red ink with which I could further add to its apparent official character. Looking about the room in the hope of finding some, my eyes rested on the bandage on my still bleeding arm. In another moment the pen was cleaned of all the black ink stains. I gently dipped it into my own bandaged wound and drew enough blood on the pen to write across the face of the pass, in back-hand writing (to distinguish it from the other) the almost cabalistic words in those days: Approved, and signed it in red with my blood.

The red ink "took beautifully."

At the next visit of my host I took great pleasure in exhibiting to him my "papers." He glanced at it approvingly, and no doubt the red ink indorsement was sufficient. Not deigning to examine farther, he said: "I don't want to question the character of a gentleman in my own house, sir, especially the word of a soldier, by Gad, sir"--he laid it aside, as of no consequence. I had told the same old story of the refugee so often, had the character down so fine, that I almost believed it myself. Of course, there were variations to suit the different circumstances, but it was nearly always a Maryland boy far away from home. I could not possibly disguise my voice and dialect sufficiently to pass in the South for a Southerner. I had been living in the South long enough to have learned the peculiarity of its people, and knew very well that I could not overcome the difficulty. So it was necessary, even at great risk to myself sometimes, to continue to play the dual character of a Maryland refugee and an English boy from Texas. There were a great many young people constantly coming over the line from Maryland into the South, and most of these, after a few days "outing," corresponded very well with my appearance or condition in this, that they were "busted," having sacrificed all but their lives for the cause, and were now hankering for a chance to offer that on the Southern altar. This immigration helped to further my projects.

I had told my kind host and hostess a tearful story of my sufferings; how my coat, and all the money that was in the pockets had been stolen while I was sick, and that I was now going to Richmond to replenish my wardrobe, just as soon as I could meet some friends, or hear from my home. This had the desired effect. Of course, I did not beg, neither did my kind friends see it in that light; but, all the same, when the good people attended their country church that Sunday they somehow interested the whole congregation, and a collection was lifted in a Virginia church for the benefit of a Yankee Spy. When they returned from church they brought with them several neighbors to dinner, and soon after I was waited upon by the old gentleman and his pastor, who, in the most considerate manner possible, presented me with an envelope, which he said: "Would be of service in making me comfortable until I met with friends."

Now the Good Spirit of my Sainted Mother in heaven, who had so often taken care of her wondering boy, certainly sent that earthly angel to me again, while I was alone in the midst of enemies on the Sunday. There was nothing that I so much needed as money, as, with it, I could hope to find means of escaping by some other route back to my home, and I would stay there, too. I was hardly allowed to thank the kind friends. After some further pleasant talk, which they indulged in to make me feel easy, I accepted their offer to the Rebel cause with the understanding that I should be able some day to repay it.

"Oh, no; some of our lady friends were anxious for an opportunity to show their devotion to the cause, and were pleased to be able to aid, above all things, a worthy refugee who is so far from home and sick."

Under the circumstances, what else could I do but take this advantage of the good people? With me it was a question of life and death; but I resolved in my heart, that if the time should ever come when our army entered that country, I should be on hand to plead for the protection of those who had unknowingly befriended a foe.

I began preparations to get away as soon as possible, by telling my kind people that it was necessary that I should "report" at once to certain officers in Richmond. I secured their consent to leave their care before I was able to travel.

It was agreed that I should be allowed to depart at once for Richmond, and, with as much feeling as if I were an only son being torn away from home to go to the war, I bade them all a hearty, thankful good-by, and walked slowly to the railroad station, which was some distance off, to get an evening train from Fredericksburg to Richmond.

The train came along in due time, and I got aboard with difficulty, because I was quite stiff and weak. Taking the first seat, in the rear of the car, I noticed at once, while being waited upon by the conductor, that there were in the forward part of the same car several officers in the Confederate gray uniform. This wasn't very reassuring, and rather unsettled my nerves, because, you see, I had, from my past few days' experience, imbibed a holy terror of anything in gray clothes. It was a Sunday, and, as they were probably off on a leave, they were engaged in their own pleasures and were not likely to disturb me. The conductor informed me, when I offered to pay my fare to Richmond, that he was required to report all soldiers traveling to a certain guard, and asked my name and regiment.

I assured him that I had a pass, and with that he walked off, and, in looking it up, I discovered that my blood approval had almost faded out.

I watched him, expecting that he would go straight to the Confederate officers; but he didn't, and I was greatly relieved to see him go out of the car, slam the door behind him, and disappear in the next car ahead. I began to wish that I had remained at the Hanover a little longer, and saw at once that the possession of the money had probably gotten me into a bad scrape, because without it I should have walked, even though every step was a pain. I reasoned correctly enough, however, that I should be safer in Richmond, in the midst of the crowded city, than alone among country people, who would soon become curious about my history, and I prayed that I might be allowed to pass in safety this new and unexpected danger of being reported by the conductor on arrival at Richmond.

While I was thinking over these uncomfortable prospects, the train was dashing along toward Richmond--only a short distance now--there was a whistle, and while the train perceptibly slackened I had time to decide that I better get off, and before the cars had stopped altogether I had slipped quietly out of the door and dropped myself down on the ties. I stood on the side of the track long enough to see a solitary passenger get aboard; the conductor jumped on, and the engine puffed off, leaving me standing alone on the track. I was again free--for how long I could not tell.

Still determined to take Richmond, I started on, wearily, to follow the train along the track, but being so weak and sore my progress was necessarily quite slow, but I persevered, and along about the time the evening lamps were being lit I walked into the outskirts of Richmond.

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