Chapter XXV…

Chapter XXV

GENO--FREDERICKSBURG--A CHAPTER OF WAR HISTORY NOT IN The Century PAPERS.

It will be remembered that, on a previous occasion, I had made an entree into the town of Fredericksburg, on the bare back of an old horse, on the morning in August after the night of horror in which I was pursued by Rebels, suffering from the attack of bloodhounds.

On the occasion of this, my second visit, I rolled over the temporary railroad bridge into the old depot at Fredericksburg on a freight train, dressed--well, in the best store clothes that money would buy at that time in Washington.

I am not sure of the exact date on which I got into Fredericksburg, en route to Richmond; it does not matter much, as I do not pretend to have kept an accurate record of the dates, however, it was along in April or May, judging by my recollection of the weather at that time. McClellan's great Army of the Potomac was on the Peninsula only a few miles from Richmond, while Fitz-John Porter had been up to Hanover Court House, about half way between Fredericksburg and Richmond. General McDowell was in command of quite a large, but, as I recollect it, a widely scattered and very much mixed up force at Fredericksburg.

The problem was to unite McClellan's and McDowell's forces against Richmond. There was just this little gap of some ten or fifteen miles between these two armies, and it was this bit of neutral ground that General Anson Stager, of the United States Military Telegraph Corps, was so desirous of opening communication through, because the "Washington Government" could only hear from McClellan by way of the slow medium of dispatch boats across the bay to the nearest point of telegraph.

I was directed by Mr. Covode to report in person, with a letter to the Chief Engineer, or Superintendent, of the Richmond & Fredericksburg Military Railroad, General Haupt, who was recently the Chief Engineer and builder of the Northern Pacific Railroad. Exactly what was to be the nature of my duties I do not now recall, if, indeed, I ever knew.

I was shown to the Exchange, or may be it was the Planter's; anyway, it was the best hotel, located on the hill, on one of the principal streets leading out toward Marye's Heights. It was not a particularly hospitable place for me, because I saw at once that the young boy, who ran the office for his mother, was only there to collect all the money he could from the "Yankee Invaders," while the father and elder brother were probably in the Rebel camps outside of town, only waiting a favorable opportunity to return and scalp the boarders.

The town was full, literally and spiritually, not only of McDowell's soldiers, who were in camp all around, but of all sorts of strange people in civilians' dress--adventurers, sutlers, traders, whisky smugglers, strange women--in fact, the main street of the quiet, sleepy old aristocratic town was a perfect bedlam in 1862, as compared with my first visit in August, 1861.

That evening, before dark, I saw on the street a greater variety of life than I had met in Washington on any one evening during my stay there. These numerous hangers-on of the armies had been, to a great degree, excluded from the Peninsula, so they had swarmed up to Fredericksburg as the next best place for them, to be nearest their favorite regiments, and "on the road to Richmond," where they all expected to rejoin McClellan's army in a very few days.

In addition to the great number of officers and men of the army, there were several batches of naval officers from one or two gunboats of the Potomac Flotilla, which had sailed up the Rappahannock and were anchored below town.

Altogether, it was what might be termed a lively town. The ordinary, quiet population had been suddenly increased to 40,000 or 50,000 of McDowell's army and followers, which had settled down around the hills and the streets in one night, like a flock of bluebirds or crows at a roosting place.

During my walk about the town that evening, I ran against a crowd of contrabands on the sidewalk, who were watching with the greatest interest the antics of a pair of New York street arabs, or newsboys, who were dressed up in their rags doing some song-and-dance acts, to the great delight of the country soldiers and assembled contrabands. There was even an attempt at a theatrical performance after early candle-lighting. Indeed it was only after taps that the Provost-Marshal's Guard made any attempt to suppress the fun.

It did not occur to me, until after I had undressed myself and had "doused the glim," while looking out of the window toward the Virginia hill, since so well known as Marye's Heights, that there was any possibility of the Rebels making a sudden dash on the town and capturing us all. I seemed to realize, only when I was alone, that there might be some chance for those Rebel fellows getting in there in sufficient force to gobble us all up.

As I peered through the darkness in the direction of Richmond, I appreciated pretty strongly the fact that I was getting close to the front of that Rebel gang again, and I had not the least desire to get inside their lines as a prisoner. I didn't sleep well, so early next morning I started out to find a place to stay, which did not impress me so strongly as being the house of my enemy.

It was my good luck, or my fate, to have met with a clever gentleman in Mr. Jimmy Wilson, of Middletown, Pennsylvania. He was one of those happy, companionable persons, to whom one naturally attaches one's self to on first acquaintance. His business in Fredericksburg was that of a trader to the army, and he had secured some special privileges in this direction through his townsman, General Simon Cameron, while he was yet Secretary of War.

It may be that Mr. Wilson was attracted to me by something of a selfish motive, through a knowledge of my connection with the railroad in an official capacity, by which he might be able to better facilitate his business interests in the transportation of his "supplies" over the road and evading too close inspections.

In the shrewd manner peculiar to the business of traveling salesmen, he had discovered the very best place in the town to live, to which he kindly consented to introduce me. It was through him that I first met my "fate," in the family of Captain Wells. There were in this happy and accomplished household quite a bevy of young ladies. "All were young, but one was beautiful."

It is quite a long, and I think may be an interesting, story, which is indeed quite too romantic for this narrative of facts. I will only say that Geno, the youngest, was, to my eyes, all that may be described as a beautiful, budding young girl.

The eldest, Miss Sue, had been a belle in Georgetown before the war; another, Miss Mamie, was noted for her sweet disposition. The father, I grieve to add, was suspected by our officers of being a blockade-runner for the Rebels. He had been engaged on the regular underground line between Richmond and Washington, via the Potomac River, since the commencement of the war. Previous to this he had been the owner and captain of a steamer plying on the Rappahannock River. Through this means he had gained valuable information of the river and little bays of that part of Virgina, and knew all about the inlets and outlets of the adjacent water, and was, in consequence of this fact, probably suspected of being a most valuable ally to the Rebel Government. His sympathies were openly with the South, but, as this was the general feeling among the citizens, no one attached importance to the Captain's personal sentiments.

Between my infatuation for Geno and the sense of duty, I had a troublesome old time of it in the weeks and months and years that followed this first evening in the Wells home.

It's pretty much the same old story of love at first sight and trouble forever after. I was politely invited to join the family circle in the parlor after tea. The mother was as youthful in her happy manner as her daughters. The genial Captain permitted himself to be prevailed upon by the younger children to sing one or two comic songs, which were received with hilarious applause. The three daughters vied with the others in their polite efforts to entertain such a dull boy, as I must certainly have become after encountering the apparition of Geno that evening. Jimmy Wilson's presence seemed to help me out a little. A group played cards, while some one banged the piano and sang "Bonnie Blue Flag," "Dixie," and, by way of a tease, "Yankee Doodle." The elder daughter, Miss Sue, was a decidedly beautiful girl, of perhaps twenty, quite lively, and perhaps a little bit of a flirt. I state this opinion generally. I did not entertain it so fully at that time as I did subsequently. Miss Mamie was the good girl of the family, while Geno was the beauty.

If I were not writing this story myself, I should be tempted to honestly declare that Geno was not only the prettiest, but the sweetest, girl I ever saw, and I have seen a great many in my life. She was not tall, but a slender, graceful, womanly figure, dressed in dark blue, she required no artificial aids to her fresh young beauty. Her face was sweetly intelligent, and, while not lacking in resolution, it was marked by that shyness which belongs to young girls who are well-born and bred in comparative seclusion.

It was decreed that Geno should sit near me that evening on a low sofa, located in a corner of the parlor. All the chairs were occupied by the rest of the company, either by accident or through Miss Sue's propensity to tease her younger sister and myself.

Geno, though but between fifteen and sixteen at that time, was, in her manner, quite as easy and winning as her elder sisters. She sat beside me on the sofa, her luxuriant, dark hair bewitchingly plaited in a roll over her head, wearing a low-neck dress, short skirts, while her bare arms gracefully held a guitar, on which she skillfully played the accompaniment and sweetly sang the old, old Spanish serenade, Juanita. (I advise the young ladies to get a guitar and practice on this song; it will catch a boy every time.) It was that song, and the beautiful, large, dark, expressive eyes of this dear little girl that put me in Old Capitol Prison.

I was a "goner" from that moment, and have never gotten entirely over it in all these years.

I do not say it boastingly at all, but for a truth. I believe I should at that time have felt more at my ease if I had been "scouting" or sitting around a camp-fire with Rebels instead of beside the little girl whose dress touched me. It was a clear case of love at first sight.

The Wells family were natives of my own State, having been embargoed during the war because of the father's steamboat interests on the river; and thereby hangs another tale not pertinent to this narrative, which I hope, subsequently, to give to the world.

I had been introduced to the family as a civilian employe of the military railway, and had been able to present some flattering letters of introduction from Mr. John W. Forney, Mr. Covode, and other prominent Pennsylvania gentlemen. I was, of course, made to feel quite at home.

I may as well admit frankly I was about Geno's house more than duty warranted; so much so, indeed, that the amiable mother must have become tired of me. I seldom went to the railroad headquarters, and I had lost all interest in the capture of Richmond and in Capitola.

Of course, I felt obliged to make an appearance of reporting for duty to the railroad office occasionally.

With a desire to learn something of the probable advance to Richmond, I had spent considerable time about the Provost-Marshal's Office, where I had become quite well acquainted with a young officer on detached duty.

His interest probably sprung from having seen me in the company of the pretty girl, with whom he desired to become acquainted through me.

On the occasion of one of these visits, I was questioned quite closely by another of the Staff officers about the politics of the Wells family, and especially of the sympathies of the ladies for Confederate officers.

Perhaps I was not in proper frame of mind to dispassionately discuss this question of Geno's family affairs with a strange officer, and it is probable that I somewhat rashly resented the supposed impertinence.

I was informed that it was through the usual gossipy information volunteered, by some unfriendly Unionists of the town, that this officer at headquarters had learned that Captain Wells had been engaged in blockade-running for the Rebels. I exclaimed that I knew better; that my relations with the family were of an intimate character; that Captain Wells was a native of my own State; that all his daughters had been born and educated in the Wyoming Valley, and that he was in Virginia solely and only because his business of steamboating had embargoed him there, and he had chosen to remain himself and sacrifice his boats, rather than abandon his family. All this was said in a positive manner, and with probably a little more animation than the subject justified. It had, however, the undesirable effect of bringing out prominently a trifling affair that occurred in connection with the family, which I must relate, as part of my experience which soon followed, just to show that "trifles light as air, are to the jealous, confirmations strong as proofs of Holy Writ."

It will be remembered by the old soldiers that, early in the war, it was the custom to display flags promiscuously wherever they could find a place to string one in a Virginia town.

Soldiers who were in Fredericksburg with McDowell, in 1862, will know that over the main streets of the town hung innumerable flags, so that the natives must either walk under the flag or stay indoors altogether.

Miss Sue Wells, like most bright girls of her age who lived in the South, was fond of tormenting our officers, "just for fun, you know." She insisted, in the company of Union officers, that she was a Rebel, but I was quietly informed by the family that, when the Confederates first had possession of the town, she was a Union girl to them.

On this and several other questions Miss Sue and I differed quite decidedly. The sequence and truthfulness of this story compels me to say here that Miss Sue and I quarreled all the time (after I had become fairly established in the family). One day, while walking with her along the main street of the town, we encountered one of the numerous flags that were suspended over the sidewalk. Miss Sue put her little foot down (and I know positively that she had a little foot), refusing in her very decided manner to walk under "that flag!"

What could I do? The street was full of soldiers and officers, whose attention was being attracted toward us by my taking her arm and attempting to force her to accompany me under the flag. I explained that there were flags on the other side of the street,

Flags to the right of us, Flags to the left of us,

and flags every place; that we would not dare to go around it; but the more I talked and urged, the more contrary she grew, and to prevent a further scene on the street, we retraced our steps.

That little act on the streets of Fredericksburg, in the summer of 1862, is on record to-day in the war archives as part of the specifications in a charge of disloyalty against myself, on which I was subsequently arrested and confined in Old Capitol Prison.

It is a shameful fact, that my early record for the Union at Fort Pickens, and the subsequent year of service with a rope about my neck, was, for a short time, completely shadowed by this silly performance with a young lady in Fredericksburg. Not only this, but it was, perhaps, the indirect cause of this young lady's father's banishment from his home and the confiscation of his property.

The officer who had reminded me of this incident undertook to give me some advice as to my association or intimacy in a Rebel family.

He further astonished me by saying they had information of a piratical scheme being hatched, which had for its object the seizure of some of the regular line of steamers plying on the Chesapeake Bay, and Captain Wells was to act as pilot. The officer explained to me further that the plan, as they had learned of it, was for a party of Rebels, disguised as passengers and laborers, to board one of these steamers in Baltimore, and, after she was out in the bay, at midnight, they were to throw off their masks, seize the boat, confine the officers and, under the pilotage of Geno's father, run her into Rebel waters as a prize.

This was indeed startling intelligence, that for a moment staggered me. I realized that a more suitable person to do the work could not have been selected than Captain Wells.

The officer said, as they had no proof of this at all, he had mentioned it to me with a view of having me look the matter up; that my relations with the family were of such a character as to enable me to get on to the real facts. I left the headquarters feeling very much depressed.

After another enjoyable evening spent at the Wells house following this conversation at Provost Headquarters, I went to my quarters quite disturbed in heart and mind as to my duty.

With the sweet voice of "Juanita" still ringing in my ears, and the memory of her beautiful eyes seemingly appealing to my tenderest sympathies, I went to bed with my head in a whirl, and dropped into a restless sleep without having settled the question in my own mind satisfactorily as to her father's guilt. There was no question as to the Captain's being entirely competent to pilot or even command such an expedition, and I may as well cut this story short by the frank admission that, had he not been the father of a very pretty girl, I would have jumped at the same conclusion as the officer.

I was, however, unwilling to believe that the father of such an interesting family, all of whom had been born and reared in Pennsylvania, would become the leader of a piratical gang. I concluded at last that I would postpone any action, for a while at least. I could do this with the better grace, as I was not specially engaged in secret service at that time. I rather relished the truth, too, that the failure of the Secretary of War to recognize my former services relieved me from any obligation to act as "spotter" for the Pinkerton detectives.

But after having slept over the matter, and while enjoying a walk the next morning among the neighboring camps, over which floated the "emblem," I suddenly regained my senses, for a little while at least, and made up my mind that it would be worse than traitorous for me, by my silence and apparent association, to permit those Maryland sympathizers to go on and mature a plan to hire a gang of Baltimore plug-uglies to play the pirate on unarmed vessels on the bay, within sight of our armies. I could, at least, put the officials on their guard. I walked back toward my "office," where I briefly wrote the rumor as it had, without my volition, been detailed to me, and at once put the letter in form to reach Mr. Covode through the improvised mail service then existing between Washington and the army of McDowell. I felt better for having done this much. I had also advised Mr. Covode that I was in a position to follow up the matter from this clew, and, if it could be confirmed, I would give the information directly to himself, and no one else. I expect, too, that I was indiscreet enough to have taken this opportunity to ventilate my own rather fresh opinions of Secretary Stanton; because just then I was smarting under his seeming indifference to and neglect of my services and claims. I am sure that my letter contained some unnecessary criticisms on Mr. P. H. Watson, Assistant Secretary, as well as the Secret Service Corps, which was under his direction, and Maj. Eckert, of the Telegraph Corps.

This letter was intended as a private communication to my friend Covode, and I had particularly cautioned him not to permit certain War Department influences to get hold of the rumors, as I wanted to work it out myself. I learned subsequently, to my sorrow, that this personal letter, containing both the information and the criticism, was sent to the War Office at once as an important paper. Anybody will see that it was not only a mistake of my own to have written in this way, but also of Mr. Covode's to have shown it; but it was one of that statesman's "privileges" to mix things up. It probably never occurred to him--as I afterward heard--that the principal effect of the criticisms, coupled with the "information," would be to impress upon the War Department officials the suspicion that Covode had employed me as one of his agents to play the "spy" on our own officials, for the benefit of the Congressional Committee of the War.

I was not very much bothered about the consequences of such things at that time. I was in love, which will account for a good many of my mistakes.

When I went to my newly-found home, at Capt. Wells's house, the evening of the same day on which I had written and mailed this letter, I was received so kindly and courteously into the house by the genial Captain himself, that I began to feel that I had been guilty of an awfully shabby trick in having reported, even privately to Mr. Covode, a private conversation with this Staff officer in regard to mine host.

Indeed, I was feeling so uncomfortable over what seemed to have been an ungracious return for favors received, that I took the first opportunity to get out of the Captain's presence, and, in the seclusion of my room that night, I inwardly resolved that I would, if possible, attempt to modify my report by another letter to follow the first.

The evening was spent in the little parlor, as on the many previous occasions. I was treated as one of the family, and entertained in the most agreeable manner by the accomplished ladies of this happy household. Each night we had music. Of course, Juanita, with the guitar, accompanied by Geno, became one feature of all others that was always so charmingly attractive to me. The Captain himself sang a number of comic songs with good effect, while the elder daughter, Miss Sue, exerted herself in a pleasant way to create a little fun for the company at my own and Geno's expense. Col. Hoffman, Mr. Wilson and myself furnished the only audience, while a happy-faced, brisk little mother supplied the refreshments, and made us all feel at home.

This general attempt at a description of one evening must suffice for the many, many happy days and evenings that I spent in Fredericksburg during the months of McDowell's occupation of that country. As I have previously stated, I could furnish the material for a romance based on wonderful facts connected with my different visits here that would make a large-sized book in itself. This is simply a blunt narrative of fact.

This is an absolutely "true love" story, and I am giving correct names and actual incidents, realizing that I may be talking to some of the survivors of McDowell's army, who may have been "thar or tharabouts".

The Colonel Hoffman referred to above was in command of the regiment that had control of the town at this time. The Colonel having known the Wells family in the North, was glad of the opportunity to meet them, and during his stay in town lived with them in the house with Mr. Wilson and myself. His regiment had been recruited somewhere in the neighborhood of Elmira, New York.

As soon as I could see the Colonel alone, I took the opportunity to tell him the story of the Captain's alleged complicity in the Chesapeake Bay piracy. To my surprise and gratification, he blurted out rather savagely: "I don't believe a word of it. Why, I've known Frank Wells all my life. No one at home ever accused him of any such traits of character as this. Why," continued the Colonel, with a show of disgust, "it's impossible. He couldn't be a disloyal man; he comes of Puritan stock, from away back. I've seen myself a family tombstone up in Long Island which shows that his ancestors were buried there as early as 1671. Why, boy, they came over in the Mayflower."

This seemed to settle it with Colonel Hoffman, but he added, in an explanatory way: "I suppose it's one of those 'Unionists' stories. Every dog who has a grievance against his neighbor, in war times, runs to the nearest Provost-Marshal to get the army on to his enemy. Wells came down here to run his boats on the Rappahannock; that was his business. He tells me that he, with a majority of the citizens here, did not believe there would be a war, or that Virginia would go out of the Union, and, therefore, he did not attempt to get away until it was too late. The Confederates wouldn't let him take his boats North. When our fellows got there, he ran his boats below town to prevent the Rebels burning them, as they did all the rest; and when the gunboats came up the river they allowed a lot of rough sailors to seize and confiscate his boats. Their object was prize money, and it is probably to their interest to create an impression that he was disloyal, that they may secure this money. I've told Frank he ought to resist this, but he is mad about it; swears they are robbers and thieves; and it is likely he and the girls have given offense in this way to some of our officers."

The Colonel's decided talk fully confirmed me in the belief that the story of the Captain's complicity was the outcome of some personal grievance.

Feeling that I had been guilty of a mean action, in reporting the names to Mr. Covode, I sat down and wrote him the second letter, retracting all that the first contained, and added that the mistake arose from the desire of some enemies of mine, or the Captain, to get me mixed up with the War Department.

I do not remember just what I did write, but if the reader will put himself in my place at that time, or try to realize what an enthusiastic, love-sick boy would be liable to write under such circumstances, in defense of his intended father-in-law, you will be apt to reach the conclusion that I do now, that I put my foot in it badly.

Unfortunately, I did not mail the letter in time to overtake the first one. I was delayed by engaging myself to accompany the ladies the next day on a visit to the grave and monument of the mother of General Washington. As all know, the mother of President Washington lived, died, and is buried in this historic old town. The old house, or all that is left of it, still stands on one of the streets. The tomb and monument is situated on rising ground some distance in the outskirts.

Most of the soldiers of the Army of the Potomac have visited this spot, at least all who were interested in such matters did, who were about Fredericksburg, and it will not be necessary to describe it.

It was arranged that we should make a select picnic party of our visit to the tomb of the Mother of our Country, and, as we expected to make a day of it, one day's rations for a dozen, composed of the usual girls' rations of sweet cake and sour pickle, were packed in a big lunch basket.

The picnic was a pleasant affair, of course, because Geno was there. For the time being I had entirely forgotten or, at least, lost interest in the letter of explanation which I had intended to send to Mr. Covode on that day, as well as everything else but Geno. On our return through town that same evening, I saw for the first time a New York regiment in full Zouave uniform marching in their cat-like or tip-toe step, carrying their guns in a graceful, easy manner as they marched along in their picturesque style. The band played and, seemingly, the whole regiment of a thousand bass voices sang "John Brown's body," as I have never heard it since. The effect upon our own party and the few loyal citizens was magical, and I leave the reader to imagine the sensations of the Rebel occupants of the houses along the line of march. The shades were closed--they always were--but that did not entirely conceal a number of bright-flashing eyes, that one could always find on close inspection peeping through the cracks.

After relieving my mind by sending the letter in the evening I turned in to enjoy myself freely in the society of the ladies, and became so much immersed in the pursuit of this new-found delight that I lost sight of all other business. Every day became a picnic and every evening a party.

One day, while loafing about my office down at the depot, I observed a strange-looking fellow hanging about. Every time I would look toward him I discovered his eyes had been upon me. He was not a good spy, or detective, because he at once gave himself away by his too naked manner of observing things. I got on to him at once, because he did not seem to do anything but shadow me.

There was also a telegraph office at the depot, the wire extending, I believe, only as far as the railroad was operated, to Aquia Creek. I had not met the operator personally, and, as had been my invariable practice, I had carefully concealed from all strangers, even friends, the fact that I was also a sound operator. I knew that neither the detective nor the operator suspected me of being an operator. As soon as I discovered that a suspicious watch had been put upon me, it stirred me all up, and served most effectively to recall me to some sense of the duties or obligations that were expected of me. For the day or two following I passed more of my time within the hearing of the telegraph instrument and less in the parlor of Captain Wells.

One morning I saw the Pinkerton detective hand a piece of paper to the operator, who quietly put it on his telegraph desk. I had to wait a long, long time, and was forced to manufacture a good many excuses for lying around the office so closely.

There is something which I cannot explain that instinctively seems to satisfy one of certain conditions or impressions of another's mind. In modern mind-reading a telegraph operator has a very great advantage over any of the professional mind-readers, from the fact that, by a simple contact of the hand to any part of the body, the telegraph operator can telegraph by silent taps or touches or by simple pressure of the hands the characters of the telegraph alphabet, and thus spell out rapidly any word. Perhaps this fact will account for some of the recent phenomena in this direction.

As I have said, I was satisfied in my own mind, instinctively, as it were, that this fellow was a War Department spy on Captain Wells and, perhaps myself, and I was just sharp and cunning enough when my blood was up to determine to beat him at his own game. He walked off some distance while I hung to the office, apparently very much interested in reading a copy of the Christian Commission Army Bible, which had found its way into the office there. I heard the operator call up his office, and, after doing some routine railroad business, he sent the message to some one of the chief detectives in Washington, which was, in effect, as nearly as I can remember, a sort of report or excuse for the failure to arrest a certain party, because he was absent that day, but was expected to return at night, when the arrest would be made.

Of course I saw that I was not the party referred to, because I was not absent. It did not take long, however, to find out, after some investigation and private talk with the operator, that Mr. Pinkerton had sent a man down there to look after the matter referred to in my letter to Covode. Of course Covode had indiscreetly rushed to the office and presented my letter, without once thinking of the severe reflections on the officials, or in anyway considering my interests. He only thought of the proposed scheme to get possession of the steamers. I suppose that he felt in his honest, patriotic heart that it must be thwarted at once. That's the way Mr. Covode did things. He told me subsequently that he felt that my letter would show Stanton and Watson that I was a valuable man.

But I was not willing that the detectives of Pinkerton should have the credit of working up this plan, and, aside from little personal feeling against the Pinkerton spy and my sympathies and sentiment for the father of Geno, I at once determined to defeat their aspirations; and I succeeded--to my own subsequent discomfiture.

Determined to prevent the arrest of Geno's father, because I believed him innocent, and realizing that I was responsible for the espionage that had been placed upon the family, and without a single thought as to the consequence to myself, I went quietly from the telegraph office to the Wells house, only a few blocks distant.

Geno smilingly welcomed me as she opened the door (she had learned to look for my coming, I have since thought,) and to her pleasant greeting I abruptly demanded, in a tone and with an agitation that must have seemed strange, "I want to see your father right away." To the polite response, "Why, there is nobody at home but me; come in;" I could only say, rather nervously, perhaps, "I must see your father or your mother on private business. I can not talk to you until this matter is settled first."

Geno turned her big, black eyes on me quickly, quizzically, looked into my heart, seemingly satisfied herself that I was very much in earnest, she observed, with a smile: "You can see father to-night, if you wish."

"I must see him before to-night. Where is he?"

My animated manner, or perhaps urgent demands in the hallway, had attracted Mrs. Wells's attention in an upper room. Making an appearance at the head of the stairway, she asked, pleasantly: "What in the world is the matter with you?"

"Oh, nothing much. Come down, please. I have something to say to you and the Captain, privately."

The happy mother descended only to the landing, where she halted long enough to see whether it would be safe enough for her to come any closer. Geno having heard me express a desire to talk privately to her parents, had suddenly disappeared through a side door; while Mrs. Wells, laughingly, stepped down, and, without waiting to hear from me, said, in her gentle, motherly way:

"Now, my dear boy, don't you talk to me about that. Why Geno is only a child."

"Oh, no; not that--not now. I came to tell you that the Captain will be arrested to-night. He must leave town at once."

With a few words more of explanation, the loyal wife and mother was alive to the gravity of the situation. I left the house as suddenly as I had entered it, after cautioning them under no circumstances to admit that I gave this information, as I would be hung too. I was back at the station before they had discovered that I had been away.

My plan, as detailed to Covode, was to have quietly waited and watched for some tangible proofs of this rumored piracy. If they had left me alone I should have worked it up for all it was worth, and reported the result to the War Department. But they jumped in and agitated the oyster, which of course closed up the oyster securely. I admit that on seeing this attempt at poaching on my premises, that I flushed the game, believing that the end would justify the means. I was only apprehensive that some member of the family might accidentally say something that would indicate that I was responsible for the escape of Captain Wells.

I became for a day or two subsequently a most regular attendant at the Department Telegraph Office.

I learned by my telegraph facilities that this Pinkerton spy had reported to his chief that "Wells has not yet returned," that "the party was still absent," and later that he had "escaped South." Luckily for me he did not learn of the short and interesting return visit the Captain made, and, in consequence, he had no occasion to immediately investigate the Captain's taking off, so that several days elapsed before he found it out. The Captain did not go South to join the Rebels, but, instead, went North, visiting during his exile a married daughter living in Baltimore, and subsequently published a little family history, in which he gives "a friend" the credit for the warning and also for supplying a pass over the railroad to Aquia Creek.

I found that I had made my way clear in thus "breaking the ice" when I should want to ask for Geno's hand. I had killed two or three birds at one shot that day. I had thwarted Assistant Secretary of War Watson and his Pinkerton crowd in their attempt at arresting Captain Wells on mere rumors. I had established myself in the good graces of Geno's entire family. I had prevented her father from being imprisoned. In addition to all this, I succeeded in getting myself into Old Capitol Prison, by order of Secretary of War E. M. Stanton, and became a companion of Belle Boyd and numerous other Rebel spies. But I'll have to tell some other things that occurred at Fredericksburg before this unfortunate episode came to pass.

I need not say that, after this episode, I felt that the fate of the entire Wells family was in my hands. From that day on I was what may be slangily termed "solid" with that happy family. I believe I have mentioned the fact previously that Geno was a strikingly beautiful young girl of sixteen, and that I was twenty. I may be permitted to even say, parenthetically, that there has been nothing in my adventurous life nearly so fascinating as were the summer days in which I was "isolated" in company with the little girl who lived, as it were, between the two armies, at Fredericksburg.

To be sure the soldiers were there, or thereabout, in force.

The crack of the picket's rifle--almost the distant boom of McClellan's battles around Richmond--indeed, the smoke of war was in the air at the time, and no one knew what a day would bring forth. This was not exactly a period well adapted to sincere love-making. But no one who has known of Geno could be made to believe that she could be insincere, or that anyone could insincerely make love to her.

We were together nearly all the time, but I do not think we were sentimental in our talk.

There was this difference to me between Geno and all my other girls. In her presence it did not seem to be at all necessary to do any sentimental talking. I was always impressed by her soul-piercing eyes with the feeling that she knew it all anyhow, and it was no use in talking--I had almost written lying. I believe I told Geno more of my life than I ever intended anybody to know. I simply couldn't help it. But I shall never do this subject justice until I write out the "Romance of this Secret Love and Secret Service." This is only a narrative of facts.

I believe I have said somewhere in this story that Geno was a pretty little girl, but, at the risk of repetition, I will say that her beauty was of a kind that may not be easily described or portrayed. It was her eyes--her beautiful dark-brown eyes--that were in themselves a soul.

In every man's life there is one moment, or one single memory, that is more cherished than all others. I shall have to tell of this one moment of my life, which occurred the day before I left.

One pleasant afternoon I happened around to the Wells house, as usual, knowing very well that Geno, dressed in her most becoming of summer toilets, would soon join me on the veranda. Perhaps I was a little earlier than usual at my accustomed seat; anyway, I became a little impatient at Geno not putting in an appearance promptly, and thinking perhaps she might not have become aware of my presence, stepped into the hall to try to make it known to her. The windows had all been closely shaded, to exclude the bright August sunlight, giving the hallway a cool and inviting half-darkened appearance. Stepping into the parlor, affecting a little cough as a signal that I was around the house, I had scarcely seated myself when my quick ear caught the sound of her footsteps as she quickly tripped down the stairway.

Lest I have neglected to mention it, I will say here that Geno was a sweet girl, with beautiful eyes, and, moreover, she was womanly in figure and graceful in action, in that hers was of the ethereal style of beauty so aptly described by Longfellow's "Evangeline." And she was sixteen, while I was twenty. Rising to greet her, I advanced to the door just as her lithe figure darkened it. She looked so nice, and you know the parlor and hallway were shrouded by that dim, religious light one reads about. I was tempted, and, yielding to the youthful impulse, grasped both her hands in mine, and attempted to steal a kiss--the first kiss of love.

I had by her quiet dignity of manner during my visit been repelled from attempting anything of a too familiar kind on such a short war-acquaintance. She quickly dropped her head, turning her face from me, while I held both hands tightly in my own, and uttered only that one little word of four letters "Geno." Whether it was the tone of voice, the imploring or entreating manner and earnest emphasis, or a mild reproach, I knew not. She answered not a word, but turned her pretty blushing face up to mine, while her beautiful eyes pierced to my soul, and I--I--oh!

Here I drop my pen, put my feet on the desk on which I have been writing this, lay my head back in my lazy chair, and with both hands pressed on my face I bring back this one blissful moment of my life twenty-five years agone, as if it were but yesterday. I can not write of it. It's a "true love" story, as the sequel will show, and none but those who have been there in war-times will appreciate it.

Before I could do it again she had deftly slipped away from me, and, like a frightened deer, glided into a dark corner of the parlor; from behind a chair she blushingly cast reproachful glances toward me, while she rearranged the hair that she had taken so much pains to bewitchingly do up, and that had so long delayed her appearance.

There is a song, and of course plenty of melody and poetry in it, which I have frequently asked friends to sing--"Il Bacio"--which more aptly describes this one blissful moment than my pen can write.

After this there was a sort of an understanding between us that all lovers, who have been there, will understand, and it is not necessary for me to explain.

I had Geno's first love; and it is a true saying that, in a woman's first love, she loves her lover; in all the rest, she loves love.

I have been in love--oh, often--so many times that I cannot enumerate all, but Geno was my "war girl"; and all old soldiers will agree with me that there is a something in the very memories of love and war that touch the heart in a way that is not reached by any other feeling.

Do not for a moment imagine that there was any attempt on the part of this truly happy family to take any advantage of the tender susceptibilities of the "Boy Spy." They knew absolutely nothing of my past record.

"Through the rifted smoke-clouds of the great rebellion" of twenty-five years ago I am relating a little love story from real life, that seems almost like a dream now, but which is the best-remembered incident of all the war to me.

"The ways of fate are very diverse," and it has truly happened to me that this sweet face looked into so long since has never been forgotten in all the years that have passed or are yet to come.

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Chapter XXVI

A SCOUT TO RICHMOND DEVELOPS IMPORTANT INFORMATION--NO FORCE IN FRONT OF M'DOWELL TO PREVENT HIS COOPERATING WITH M'CLELLAN--THE SECRETARY OF WAR RESPONSIBLE FOR THE FAILURE OF THE PENINSULA CAMPAIGN--OUR SPY AS A WAR CORRESPONDENT ANTAGONIZES THE WAR DEPARTMENT BY CRITICISM IN THE PAPERS--IS ARRESTED ON A TECHNICALITY AND SENT A SPECIAL PRISONER TO OLD CAPITOL BY THE SECRETARY OF WAR'S ORDERS.

I made a scout on my own account to the very outskirts of Richmond, which resulted in establishing the fact that there was no enemy in front of McDowell. On my return to our lines, I was, as had been my usual fate, coolly received by our own officers and suspected of disloyalty. In my impulsive way, perhaps, I had too freely criticised, in my letters to Mr. Forney's paper, our officers for their listlessness in permitting McDowell's army to lie idle, while McClellan was being forced to change his base on the Peninsula.

At the headquarters of the regiment, or picket guard, I had encountered, I was cross-examined by every officer who could get a chance to stick a question at me. To all I had the same story, with renewed emphasis each time, that there was no Rebel army between Fredericksburg and Richmond.

The detention at so many of these subordinate headquarters, or the halting at so many stages of our return, to answer these same stereotyped questions, began to annoy me. I had been scouting for hours without a moment's rest; my nerves were all unstrung, now that I had gotten safely back. I wanted to go to the real headquarters, and tell all I knew to the General, and then go to Mrs. Wells' house to see Geno and rest for the balance of my life. I was tired, hungry, nervous and irritable, which accounts for the unfortunate fact that I became at last resentful and, perhaps, insulting, to some of the higher officers about the headquarters and staff, who questioned my statements.

General McDowell was not present; he had been sent to Washington, or to the Shenandoah Valley I think, so that those in command had no authority, as I knew, and I felt in my nervous condition that they had insulted me by daring to doubt my story.

While yet smarting under this disagreeable reception of my report, I sat down and sent Mr. Covode a dispatch, over the military wire, giving him in brief the results of my recent observations, and asserting positively that the army could go to McClellan if they wanted to. Those are not the words of the dispatch, but it was in substance the same story that I had told, with the addition of some bitter comments. I did not stop to think at the time that such a dispatch could pass through the War Department Telegraph Office, and be subject to that censorship. My only object was to hasten the information to headquarters through Covode, because I realized that the officers of our own army would not act upon it.

I did not know then, neither did General McClellan, or anybody else in the armies, that Secretary Stanton had sometime previously positively ordered General McDowell not to reinforce McClellan.

My dispatch was unintentionally a criticism on the Secretary of War; and, coming as it did, in this outside and unofficial way, to Covode, whose committee were investigating these things, it no doubt put me in bad shape before the Secretary of War.

Undoubtedly, Major Eckert, who was then the official in charge of the telegraph office, but who in reality acted as a messenger to carry private news to the ear of the Secretary, gladly availed himself of the opportunity to place me in a bad light before the Secretary.

As I had previously made several visits to Washington and Baltimore while sojourning with the family, my short absence of one day and two nights was not noticed.

I may be permitted to say, parenthetically, that Miss Mamie Wells, the second daughter, had gone to her sister's home in Baltimore under my charge a few days previous to this. Her war history, I venture to say here, would present one of the most attractive yet written.

She was, during the bombardment and battles, a Florence Nightingale to both sides; and to her parents and family, in the subsequent terrible sufferings consequent upon their exposed position between the two armies, became a heroine in deed and in truth.

My personal acquaintance with this remarkable young lady was confined to the few days of 1862. The incident which is best remembered occurred while riding up the Potomac from Aquia Creek as her escort, en route to Baltimore. In reply to something that I had said on the subject that was uppermost in my heart, she took occasion to say to me in a kind, sisterly way about Geno, that produced a lasting effect upon me: "You must not trifle with that child."

That I was sincere and very much in earnest she soon discovered, because, from her charming manner, I was impelled to tell her right there much more of my love for her sister than I had told Geno herself. Her smiling approval, when I mentioned my ambition to make Geno an officer's wife, was: "You love like a boy, but I believe you would fight like a man."

Miss Sue was of an entirely different disposition. She was a born coquette, and flirting was natural to her. Her eyes were hazel, and, if I may be permitted to offer my advice to the sons of veterans, it is, don't attempt to flirt with a pair of hazel eyes, because it is a waste of time and dangerous. Perhaps they are less susceptible than black or blue, but once trifled with, or neglected, they do not pine away in grief, but rally for revenge and take it out in scorn.

I never made love to Miss Sue that I remember, after having met Geno; but she evidently felt that I was her legitimate game, simply because she was the oldest daughter. In fact, she told me plainly that Geno was entirely too young to be spending so much time with strange young gentlemen.

Naturally enough, I resented her advice, and talked to Geno about it, but my little girl only laughed sweetly at my earnestness, and not once, that I can recall, said a single word in reply that reflected on her elder sister's judgment. Geno's voice was mild, her method of speaking slow, with a charmingly hesitating manner, that made everything she said, or left unsaid, impressive.

The father being absent in exile, Miss Sue prevailed upon the mother to allow her to "manage this affair," as she haughtily termed it. We were being restricted somewhat arbitrarily by Miss Sue's management, and, to get around it, I had recourse to smuggling little notes to Geno through her little brother George and sister Jennie.

I recall now, with a laugh, with what slyness and caution Geno managed this little secret service of ours. There were not any ciphers used, but Geno had away of inserting quotations in French in her notes that embarrassed me, because I couldn't interpret them myself, and, of course, dare not appeal to any one else.

One day we all came to grief by Miss Sue getting hold of one of my notes to Geno, in which I impulsively intimated that the animus or motive of Sue's opposition was based on the fact that she desired all the attention bestowed on herself. That was a very indiscreet thing to put on a piece of paper; but, as I have said before, I think, I was twenty and Geno was sixteen.

Entering the parlor one afternoon, I found both the sisters sobbing and crying as if their hearts were breaking over some sudden intelligence of a dreadful character. I hurriedly asked if their father had been caught. But, to my eager interest, Sue replied through her tears by taking me to task about this note. I tried to explain, but she did all the talking for an hour, and I got no chance to say a word, until she said something about Geno being too young to take care of herself, when I blurted out: "Geno is better able to take care of herself than you are, and I know it."

That was putting my foot into it deeper than ever.

It took me a week to get this affair straightened out, and I verily believe the words uttered so thoughtlessly at this moment were treasured up against me in wrath by Miss Sue for twenty years, though she pretended to "make up," and I kissed both of the sisters that time before we broke up the conference or love-feast.

There remains in existence to-day a neatly-written, faded letter addressed to "The friend of an hour," which my sister Ruthie has preserved. The smart, sharp, stinging words of this letter have served as a model for more than one communication under similar circumstances.

There was this peculiarity about the Wells family: they were all loyal and true to each other, and to their parents. More than one outsider has learned to their sorrow--touch one, and all of them were touched.

As serving to indicate this, and to show the innocence and purity of Geno, I will relate at my own expense an incident.

Shortly after the Captain and father had "escaped" through my connivance, Geno, in her sweet, hesitating voice, said to me, in reply to something I had been saying or doing: "Father said to me, as he bid me good-by: 'Geno, look out for Mr. O. K.'"

I was stunned. Perhaps I was presuming too far on my being solid with the family, and, in my usual impulsive way, I earnestly resented the Captain's caution, probably because I realized that he was right, and said something harsh in reply. Geno looked up into my face in a surprised way, while she defended her father. I shall never forget the words and the manner in which they were uttered: "Why, father knows best. I would not have him angry with me for anything."

It was a lesson to me. I was angry at the moment, but I loved her all the more for this evidence of loyalty to her parents.

It may be worth while to add a word of advice to the boys and girls who may read this. The good and faithful daughter always makes a good wife. Don't forget it, boys and girls.

To pick up the tangled love-knot in the thread of this narrative, I will say during the pleasant evening spent with the Wells family, I was so happy and contented that I became wholly oblivious to everything that was going on in the army outside. It was late the next day when I walked down to the railroad office as usual, to see if there was any news for me. It was then that I received the note of warning from my brother Spencer, which had come during my absence, a reference to which has been made further back in this narrative.

While in or around this office or station, about which were always congregated a great crowd of officers and soldiers off duty, as well as sutlers, newsboys, etc., I was pleasantly approached by General McCallum, who had charge of all the military railroads, as the successor of Colonel Thos. A. Scott, and who, after talking agreeably about some of the work I had previously undertaken, told me in his gruff way: "Railroad and telegraph employes have been required by the Secretary of War to take the oath of allegiance. All have signed but you, and I have left a blank in the office for your signature."

I was an employe, and as such was perfectly willing to sign all the oaths they required, and expressed my willingness to comply at once. I found a written blank form had been prepared for me in the office. I signed it without thinking it necessary to read. When handing the paper back to the clerk, he remarked jocularly: "They have made you sign a mighty tight paper, haven't they?"

It was only when my curiosity was aroused by this remark that I thought of reading over the form of the oath. I think it was what was known in the year after as the cow-catcher bond or iron-clad oath. It was purposely made strong enough to catch any supposed case of disloyalty. It contained one simple clause that at the time seemed to perplex me a little. It read in substance: "I have never belonged to any organization, or borne arms against the Government of the United States, voluntarily or involuntarily."

I could not conscientiously or truthfully swear to that. I was willing enough to do almost anything to get around the ugly point, that seemed like a rock in my path, without being forced to explain that I had voluntarily united with the rebel army, and involuntarily borne arms against the Government. I dreaded very much putting my name to a paper which could in any event be brought up against me as a proof that I was "a perjurer."

I was loyal to the core, as everybody who has read this must know; but I had--I may say voluntarily--united myself with the Third Battalion of Rebel Maryland Artillery. To be sure, I was forced by the necessities of my peculiar work and the situation during my sickness in Richmond, as well as prompted by a desire to further and better aid the United States Government, to do this; but the stubborn fact was--I had taken their oath and I had in reality borne Rebel arms. I had not told anyone in Fredericksburg about this, and none of the railroad employes knew anything of my former experiences. Perhaps Geno had my confidence, but none of the family ever received any intimation from her of my true character. To them all I was, as Sue put it, "A nice little fellow from Pennsylvania, and that's all we know."

I saw at the first glance of this new oath that I was in a tight place; and, in a moment of hasty impulse, prompted solely by a desire to be truthful and honorable to myself, I scratched my name from the paper. Without a word of explanation to the astonished clerk, I took it to Gen. McCallum, and, in a few words, explained my action, and desired him to try and find some way out of the trouble for me. He had understood in a general way something of my experiences, and when I told him my action, he agreed with me, and said that it was right and honorable in me to protect my name. Further, on his return to Washington the day following, he said he would report the matter to the Secretary of War, and asked that I be permitted to remain in the service without being compelled to sign that iron-clad paper.

I thought then that the matter was settled, and in the evening went home from my office, to pass another--only one more--of the enjoyable, happy nights, in the company of the ladies.

In the meantime the leaven I had sent to Washington previously, in the shape of a telegram to Covode, had begun to work; so that when General McCallum got back to Washington City the next day, and reported my case to the Assistant Secretaries, P. H. Watson and General Eckert, these two officials put their wise heads together, and with only the evidence in their possession, which was additionally overbalanced by General Eckert's former prejudice, they came to the hasty conclusion, without giving me a chance to be heard, that "I was a very dangerous man," and so reported their conclusion to Mr. Stanton, whose attention was at the same time called to my reports to Covode.

The telegrapher at Fredericksburg at that time, was a Mr. Gentry, of Kentucky, a clever gentleman, as all Kentuckians are that I have ever met.

That afternoon, while lounging in the cool parlor with Geno and Miss Sue, I was called to the door by a visit from Mr. Gentry, who politely informed me that he had an intimation from my brother and friends in Washington that I would get into trouble unless I signed that oath. Mr. Gentry very kindly advised me, to use his own words, which made such a lasting impression on me that I have not forgotten them: "Now, don't you be carried away by infatuation for this pretty little girl; act sensibly for the present; why, I'd sign anything, and I'm from Kentucky."

He was very courteous, and I felt that he had been sent after me, and if there is any one thing that I abhor it is being "led" or coddled. He knew nothing of my reasons for declining the oath, and when he desired a reply from me to telegraph back to Washington, I merely said: "Just tell them I won't do it. They will understand that."

"But," Mr. Gentry interposed, "the Secretary of War sends this word--that you must do it."

"Well, I won't do it for the Secretary of War or anybody else."

"What shall I tell him?"

"Tell him to go to ----."

"No," laughed Gentry, "I wouldn't like to do that."

"Well, tell the Secretary I said so."

I felt at that time that it was not Mr. Stanton personally who was insisting upon cornering me in this way. He certainly knew of my former services, and that I could not be disloyal if I wanted to. If he had given the subject a moment's consideration, he would have surmised the reason for my "recalcitrancy"--to call it by a big name.

I believed then, and I have always entertained the opinion, that Mr. Eckert, through Assistant Secretary Watson, was instrumental in creating this misunderstanding. Perhaps I am mistaken, but I shall die without changing my mind on this subject.

Mr. Gentry probably went direct to his office after his short interview with me and reported the failure of his effort to "reconstruct me."

I imagine that, in his jocular manner, common to all operators, he detailed the exact conversation with me over the wire to the War Department operators. I cannot think he sent my words as an official message to the Secretary of War, but undoubtedly the substance had been telegraphed, and, of course, the War Department telegraph spies made the most use of their opportunity to down one who was inclined to be so "independent and obstreperous."

In an hour or two Mr. Gentry returned to the house--they all knew where to find me--called me to the door again, and, in the most feeling manner, told me privately that he had received, and at the same time held in his possession, a telegraph order from the Secretary of War, E. M. Stanton, to Provost-Marshal-General Patrick for my arrest.

Mr. Gentry very kindly kept the fact that he had received such a message entirely to himself, considerately bringing to me first the ugly intelligence. He did not say so, but I have always believed his object was to give me an opportunity of escaping. I could easily have done so without leaving any suspicion attached to him of having advised me of this intention.

I had no thought of attempting anything of this kind. We sat down on the porch together while I read the order, which is to-day on file in the War Office, in these words: "Arrest and keep in the closest confinement, O. K., and send to Washington in charge of sufficient guard to prevent any communication."

Mr. Gentry endeavored to ease the "disagreeable duty," as he termed it, by saying that the receipt of such an order was a great surprise to him, and he felt sure there was some mistake, and that all would be righted when I should reach Washington.

When I realized the full purport of such an order from the Secretary of War, I was almost stunned at the direful prospect.

My first thoughts were of the distressing effect of such news on my father and relatives at home, who were expecting that I should receive soon a promotion from the Secretary of War to the Regular Army. How, then, could I explain this arrest to them? I don't know now whether or not I even thanked Mr. Gentry for his kind thoughtfulness at the time. I hope he may be living and see from this that, after the lapse of twenty-five years, I have not forgotten his generous and thoughtful consideration for me on that hot Summer day in 1862.

Asking to be excused for a moment, I briefly told Mrs. Wells of the sudden intelligence, which she received in her motherly, sympathetic manner, with both hands raised in astonishment. Without trusting myself to talk further to her or anyone else in my agitated condition, I rejoined Mr. Gentry, and we walked together up the hill to General Patrick's office, where Mr. Gentry handed the order to General Patrick while I stood by. After he had read the telegram, Mr. Gentry astonished the old man by introducing his prisoner. The General was kind, indeed he was very sympathetic, and explained that, as the order was direct from the Secretary of War, he should have to give it especial attention, and see that it was executed to the letter; but he would make it as pleasant for me as possible.

I was given one of the vacant rooms in the private mansion then occupied as Provost-Marshal's Headquarters; a sentry with a loaded musket stood guard in the large hallway at my open door, with positive orders, as I was courteously informed by the officer who placed him there, not to allow anyone to see me, and, under no circumstances, was I to communicate with any person, except through himself, as officer of the guard.

As there were no boats leaving for Washington City from Aquia Creek so late in the day, I was obliged to remain a solitary prisoner, under strict order of the War Department, until the following day.

I shall make the story of my imprisonment as brief as may be. During all my life, it has been a close secret with me, and for the first time, I am attempting to tell the entire story, which to many of my best friends has been as a hidden mystery.

The sentry in a blue uniform, with a loaded musket in his arms, stood within a few feet of me during the evening; and, while I slept on a cot, he faced about like a guardian angel, in a grum sort of way, however, that was not at all calculated to promote a feeling of sociability.

In fact, his bearing rather impressed me with an overwhelming sensation that the gun he carried was loaded, and the fellow who had command of it looked as if he were asking for a chance to try it on something.

He wasn't a companionable fellow, so I acted toward him as he did to me--with silent contempt; and that's the way I spent the evening. I knew very well that there were plenty of friends in town who would have called to see me in this, my time of need, if they had been permitted to do so. As it was, I was all alone in my glory, until late in the evening, when an officer, accompanied by a soldier, came to my prison door, the soldier carrying a little basket, which I was told contained my supper, which kind and motherly Mrs. Wells had sent to me, but not a word of sympathy or regret accompanied it. I don't know for sure, but I think that the contents had been, not only "inspected" by the officer of the guard on the lookout for contraband communications, but that the different little dainties had been sampled as well, probably to see if they did not conceal a poison.

This generous and thoughtful remembrance from Mrs. Wells, was the only indication I received in my solitary confinement, during all that beautiful but lonely long summer evening in Fredericksburg, that there were any persons outside of my four walls, except the grim old sentry. Of course, I well knew that at our house there would be assembled the usual crowd of happy young folks, and their conversation and thoughts would naturally be with me in my confinement. This comforting reflection was, however, somewhat disturbed by the fear that the entire family might either have been arrested or dispersed; so that, the discomforts of my close confinement were greatly increased by this fear, until I was in a manner assured of their safety by the arrival of the daintily-served lunch.

I slept that night--if I slept at all--on a bed of misery. At every turn I was made to realize that I was a prisoner--to our own side. Though the officers of General Patrick's Staff, who had charge of me, were accomplished gentlemen, and seemed apparently to sympathize with me, I could not conceal and they must have seen my distress, they were obliged, by the strict orders they had received--as was frequently explained to me--direct from the Secretary of War--to prevent any communication with me.

The morning following my arrest, after a hasty and solitary breakfast, I was personally visited by General Patrick, who was then Provost-Marshal for that Army, who, in the most kindly manner possible, expressed his regrets for the necessity of putting me to so much inconvenience, further explaining that, once in Washington, I could no doubt get everything fixed up. He then showed me two letters and a small pocket Bible that had been sent to me, but which he could not deliver to me, under the strict orders to permit no communication. When I recognized the address of one letter to be the well-known handwriting of my father, the very sight of it seemed to be like a thrust of a knife into my heart, as I at once realized how distressing to him would be the news of my arrest--my friends had been expecting in its stead a promotion, by way of recompense for my past services. The other note I knew was from Geno, while the Bible was the last, best gift of Mrs. Wells.

I was assured by General Patrick that they should be sent along with me to Washington, in the care of the officer in charge, and he hoped and expressed the belief that I should soon be free and get possession of them.

With a kind "Good-by," he introduced me to Captain ----, whose name I have forgotten, and a Lieutenant, who would kindly accompany me to Washington. The Captain very considerately observed that it had been arranged that we should get out of town quietly, without attracting any attention from the crowds about the streets, who had, no doubt, heard of my arrest.

To better accomplish this and avoid the depot, we crossed the river together at a ferry, in order to take the train for Aquia Creek from the other side, and, in so doing, we passed within a half block of Geno's house, but not within sight of it.

The Captain who accompanied me, though always by my side or, at least, close by me, considerately made it a point to act toward me--his prisoner--as if I were merely a companion. Not any of the crowd that took the train that day with us suspected that I was a prisoner. And, by the way, there was a great crowd leaving for Washington about that time, caused, if I remember aright, by some bad news from General Banks in the Valley, or McClellan.

It was the Lieutenant who was acting as the silent partner of the Captain, who kept the closer eye upon me, while, at the same time, he discreetly kept himself aloof from us and did not appear at all as one of the party. I mention all this minutely, merely to show that, notwithstanding the strict orders of the Secretary of War, and the close watch of the two officers, I succeeded in communicating with my friends at Washington.

When the overcrowded train of open freight cars and one or two passenger coaches cautiously crawled over the big trestle-work bridges, constructed by details of soldiers, between Falmouth, on the opposite side of the river from Fredericksburg, and reached "You-be-dam" Station, near Aquia Creek, though only twelve or fourteen miles, it was late in the day. There was a long temporary pier at Aquia Creek, and a number of rough board-sheds had been erected for the accommodation of the Quartermaster, commissary and other officers at this base of supplies. Among these offices was located the railroad telegraph offices, which were then in charge of Mr. Wm. Emerick, at the present time the efficient manager of the Gold and Stock Telegraph Company in New York City. In the management of the business in hand, it so happened that my Captain was obliged to call in a business way upon the Quartermaster, stationed here, to secure the required transportation for his party, on the boat up to Washington City; and while he was showing his papers and explaining his errand, I occupied a seat that I discovered to be convenient to the telegraph office, or desk, which was located in the same room. Mr. Emerick did not at that time suspect that I was an operator, neither did he know that I was under arrest; so, when the attention of the Captain was drawn, Mr. Emerick was eating his lunch outside, I sat on the edge of the rough table that was used for the telegraph instruments. Without speaking a word and apparently intent on watching the Captain's business, as my face was toward him, quietly, with one hand I touched the telegraph key, and deftly making use of my education as an operator, I signaled for attention. Quickly, and as all operators will readily understand, in shorter time than it takes me to tell it on paper, I was recognized by the answer, I, I, g-a., which means, Yes, go ahead. I sent a few words nervously to my brother operator, in effect for Mr. "John Covode--Call at Old Capitol Prison to see me," and signed my name.

This was all done so quickly, and so quietly and effectively, that not one person present suspected that I was occupied in anything of the sort.

Lest I should be suspected, I left the telegraph desk abruptly, but I had the satisfaction of hearing the acknowledgment of my dispatch, in the familiar telegraph sound: "O. K."

In the year following, I rode in an ambulance one day with Mr. Emerick from Aldie to Washington during the Gettysburg campaign, and was amused beyond my power of description to hear Mr. Emerick detail the trick that a Rebel Spy had played on him at Aquia Creek. He did not detect, in my hearty laugh at his recital of the story, that I was in any way an interested party because, at that time, I was on the Headquarters Cavalry Corps, Army of the Potomac Staff, and wore the blue uniform.

At the regular hour for the daily boats to leave Aquia Creek for Washington, we--the Captain, Lieutenant and myself--were aboard and comfortably seated in arm-chairs on the hurricane deck.

About 6 P. M. we ran up past the Arsenal and finally fastened to the wharf. Here I realized fully, for the first time, that the Captain and Lieutenant were both strictly attentive to me, insisting on giving me a helping hand to almost every step through the crowds that were then rushing off the boats as soon as they touched the landings. I realized, with a sickening sensation at my heart, that I was not now free to go as I pleased, as had been my habit on many former trips up the river to Washington.

The officer in charge, not knowing the location of the Old Capitol Prison, in Washington, it became my duty to pilot my guard to my own prison. I believe we went along Maryland avenue, or, at least, to the south side of Washington, on what was known as "the Island"--below the canal--and got up through one of the stone-yards that then surrounded the unfinished Capitol.

In 1862 there were no beautiful Capitol Grounds to the north and south of the building, but, instead, the whole country thereabout was occupied by the gang of stone-cutters and their piles of marble or stone debris, similar to that which surrounded the Washington Monument within the last few years.

I steered the way in a direct course to the Old Capitol. When we got there, we were stopped by an armed sentry on the pavement, who called an officer that escorted us inside the hallway.

Here we were again detained, to wait until the Commandant had been heard from. After a most unhappy wait of half an hour we were ordered to the "office." Here, for the first time, I saw Colonel W. P. Woods, who is, I understand, a resident of Washington. Colonel Woods was rather a young, sharp-looking man, if I remember correctly, with side-whiskers, or, as we term them, short Presbyterians.

He was evidently accustomed to receiving guests at his hotel, and at first seemingly paid but little attention to the new arrivals, being at the time engaged in conversation with some lady visitors. The Captain produced a letter, which a young fellow, with all the airs of a hotel clerk, graciously deigned to open and read. He left his seat and whispered a word to Captain Woods, who left his talkative lady friends and turned his attentions to us, with as sudden an interest as if he had discovered a millionaire guest among the recent arrivals. I never knew what were the contents of the letter delivered to the Captain. I presume it is on record in the War Department among the Rebellion Records. Only this much I am sure. I am not mistaken in saying that I was a special guest, and at once became the center of attraction for Captain Wood and his force of attendants.

He gave us his personal attention, and himself took the records, and entered my arrival on his register, where they will be found to-day.

The walls of the Old Capitol Prison of the War of the Rebellion are still standing on the corner of First and A streets, North-East Washington, but in so altered a shape as to be scarcely recognized by the oldest inhabitants. In 1862 this famous building was a plain, oblong structure, more closely resembling a warehouse after the style of the Richmond Tobacco Libby, than anything else that I can think of just now by way of comparison.

The old building was what was known as a double house, with a large, very broad hallway running through the center of the house, extending to the back porch or yard, on the L-shaped wing--a back building on A street.

In one of the four rooms that opened out of the hall, located nearest the door I think, was Captain Wood's office. Here I was "detained" for, well, probably an hour, after the Captain had bidden me a cordial "Good-by," promising that when he reported my safe arrival to the Secretary, on the following morning, he would endeavor to say a word of commendation of my good conduct.

My heart sank within me when I realized to the fullest extent that I was a prisoner. I sat in a chair near Mr. Wood's desk, while he, with some others, arranged suitable quarters for me. In due time I was shown to my room, which was located in the L, immediately at the head of the back stairs that led up out of the porch. I am living in Washington on the same square with the celebrated old building, now occupied as a princely residence by Chief Justice Field, General Drum, Senator Spooner, and, during my daily walks to and fro, I frequently pass the old window, and never once fail to look at it, almost expecting to see a ghost of my former self looking out at me.

I was shown to my little eight by ten hall-room, furnished only by a soldier's cot and a chair, and being so tired, sick, and broken-hearted I lay down, and, after bitter, scalding tears, soon dropped into the sleep of innocence.

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Chapter XXVII

OLD CAPITOL PRISON--BELLE BOYD, THE REBEL SPY, A COMPANION AND FRIEND--A DISGUISED ENGLISH DUKE--INTERESTING SCENES AND EXPERIENCES IN THIS FAMOUS STATE PRISON--PLANNING TO ESCAPE DISGUISED AS A CONTRABAND--RELEASED ON PAROLE BY ORDER OF THE SECRETARY OF WAR.

My Old Capitol Prison experience covered about three weeks of the hottest and, to me, the most disagreeable close and sultry days of a Washington summer.

I was a "prisoner of State" within the walls of the ugly old building during part of the months of August and September, 1862.

To one of my active temperament, the confinement at this particular time was made doubly annoying by the knowledge we, as prisoners, were permitted to obtain, in an unsatisfactory way, of course, of the important military movements that were then going on outside. We heard, in a half apologetic way, of the abandonment of the Peninsula by McClellan, or a change of base; and this news was received inside the prison by the inmates with cheers, that sent cold chills down my spine. The locks and bars, which were always in sight, as well as the bayonets of the armed sentry, that were everywhere in view from the windows, seemed to sink deeper into my heart, when I realized that Fredericksburg was also necessarily abandoned, and Geno in the hands of the Rebels. When the crowded inmates of the prison would form groups in the yard in the evening, and, in the wildest glee, openly congratulate each other on the prospect of their speedy release by Stonewall Jackson's men, when he should reach Washington, I felt, for obvious reasons, that I'd rather not be "released" by that sort of a crowd. This feeling was especially exhibited after the news of General Pope's disaster at the second battle of Bull Run, that occurred while I was locked up there. But I am getting over these three weeks in O. C. P., as we call it for short, a little prematurely.

Very few of the tourists who visit Washington are aware that within rifle-shot of the Capitol stands (in greatly altered shape, of course,) one of the most historic buildings about the city. A good-sized book might be printed about the Old Capitol, and yet not one-half the secrets the old walls could tell would have been told. It was within these walls that John C. Calhoun, in dreadful agony of mind and body, breathed his last on earth, and it is said that his last words were not those of peace and happiness. It seems a little odd that the same brick and mortar hid from the outside world the last dreadful agony of the arch-fiend Wirz. The Kit Carson G. A. R. Post, of Washington, of which I am a comrade, was organized over the same bier and in the same dungeon that contained the body of Wirz after execution, in the year of the assassination of Lincoln, and during the Presidency of Mr. Andrew Johnson.

I spent my first night alone in a prison on the only cot the little hall-room contained. I had thrown myself upon it when I realized that Colonel Woods had closed and locked the door on me, after a polite "Good-night," without undressing myself. I admit that I broke down completely, and cried myself to sleep. I was simply broken-hearted when I recalled my previous dangerous services for the Government; could not understand why I should be so ruthlessly and heartlessly treated by the Secretary-of-War. It was my sensitive feelings that were so cruelly hurt.

In the morning I wakened, a hardened, stubborn, and, if I had been given the least chance, I should have shown myself an ugly, vindictive man. It seemed as if the boy in my nature had parted from me with those bitter tears, and when I roused myself it was with a determination to "do something"--I didn't know exactly what, but it was anything but a surrender, or to beg for my liberty.

The unlocking of the doors and the tramping of feet along the hallways, with the voices of the attendants in boisterous conversation with the inmates of the other part of the Hotel de O. C. P., were the sounds that first awakened me to this new life, as it were. As I had not undressed, I was out before the crowd got around, and enjoyed the opportunity of surveying my surroundings in quietness. As I have tried to explain, my room was right at the head of the hall stairs, on the L-part of the building, facing on A street north. The only window the room contained looked north, and, as there were in those days no buildings at all, of any size, in that part of the city, my view extended away across the country to the Deaf and Dumb Asylum on the northern hills. In the low foreground were the numerous trains of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, that were constantly going and coming out, the tracks being in full view. This sight of loaded cars speeding away to the North--to home and liberty--was not, you may be assured, exactly the thing calculated to make the close prisoner, who saw them from his window, feel any better contented with his prison. My first thoughts at this sight were, that I should quietly leap down the short distance from that window on to the pavement below, as it was but one story above the walk, where I might quietly glide over the open commons and "catch a train."

There were no bars to the windows, and the sash was not even fastened down, because of the necessity for ventilation, so that I was able to stick my head clearly outside, but I was paralyzed to discover on the first inspection that, down on the pavement below my window, every inch was being closely patrolled by a double guard of armed sentries, while the commons, a little distance off, were occupied as the camp for the outside-guard. That's exactly the way they had it arranged in 1862, and, I also observed very soon after my arrival, that there was an inside-guard pacing up and down the hallway in front of our open doors. The outside sentinels did not allow any one except their own officers on the pavement or street, in their front, so that communication in any shape or form was out of the question.

The back stairway led out on to the porch of the L, that opened into the yard. Communicating with this wooden porch at one end was the front hall, which led through the center of the main building out on to First street, to the west. It was modeled precisely on the same old-fashioned plan of a large farmhouse or country hotel. A main building, divided in the center by a hall which opened on to the big back porch. As if to further complete the comparison with a country tavern, I found, on going down stairs that first morning, that the porch was provided with a number of wash-bowls and long towels on rollers, at which the guests were expected to make their morning toilets, assisted by that usual scraggy old comb attached to a yard of string, tied to each post of the porch, that contained, of course, a looking-glass which distorted one's face so that I imagined, at the first sight of myself, that a single night in jail had made me look like a horrible old murderer.

Meals were served by the proprietors, of course, but I was politely informed by an officer, in answer to some question about the rules and regulations of the house, that those who preferred it could select a caterer and have special meals served from the outside. I concluded to be a prisoner on the European plan, and joined a mess of two or three other hail-fellows-well-met, to whom I was introduced by the officer. There were no restrictions placed on my intercourse with this mess, though we were informed that the trio would not be allowed to have any communication with prisoners in the other part of the house.

I did not want to see anybody that I had ever known before--not even my brother, who was then at the War Department, and to whom I had secretly telegraphed to meet me with Mr. Covode. There is no other explanation of this feeling except an admission that it was a cranky freak I indulged in to the fullest extent. After my first breakfast, while in my little room engaged in looking out of the window at the shifting trains, I was surprised by a first call from a lady.

One of our mess, whom I will call English, because he was an English "Spy"--or had been arrested as being in communication with the Rebels--politely knocked at my half-open door, saying, in the most polite way, for he was a genuine English gentleman:

"Miss Belle Boyd desires to meet you, sir," and, before I could recover from my surprise, the door was darkened by the lithe and graceful figure of a neatly-dressed young lady, who had presented herself to my vision so suddenly as to suggest a spirit from the other world. It was Belle Boyd, the celebrated female Rebel Spy. I had heard of her in connection with her daring horseback raids about Winchester and in the Valley with Stonewall Jackson and Jeb Stuart, but did not have any idea that she was to be a "fellow" prisoner with me. Without any embarrassment at all, and as if sincerely anxious to welcome me to the prison, she stepped forward smilingly and, with hands outstretched, took mine in hers, as she said: "I was anxious to see who it was that was here by Stanton's express orders."

I don't just remember now how I did act, but it's most likely that it was in an awkward, embarrassed manner, that caused Miss Belle to say, reassuringly: "Oh, you are among your friends now, and I'm glad to know you."

To my immediate relief the conversation was further carried on by English and Miss Boyd in a strain which, while it gave me an opportunity to recover myself, at the same time put the thought into my brain that I'd "catch on," as we say nowadays, and find out what this racket in the Spy line was. Here were two Rebel spies, with whom I had been put in confidential communication, and it flashed across my mind in an instant that I would make some good come of the unpleasant surroundings and put myself in such a position that the War Department would be glad enough to acknowledge my services. There was not a shadow of a doubt of Belle Boyd's sincere interest in me. She said:

"I was in C. I. Woods' office last night when I heard him tell the officers on duty: 'You must not overlook the fact that the young man in the hall room, by himself, is here under the express orders of Mr. Stanton.'"

As Miss Boyd made this observation in her own positive style, her lip curled with scorn at the mention of Mr. Stanton's name. She said further, in words that I have never forgotten:

"There was something else said in an undertone that I could not gather, but I determined that I would see the prisoner who was under Mr. Stanton's express orders."

This was my introduction to Belle Boyd, and to this indorsement of Colonel Woods and Mr. Stanton I am probably indebted for the very warm and kindly interest this famous female Spy afterward showed toward me.

As I remember her appearance at that time, she was of light, rather fair complexion, and I think her hair was inclined to be a strawberry blonde. While she was not strictly a handsome woman, there was something in her manner that was very attractive. She reminded me of Maggie Mitchell in her younger days. She was graceful, and, if I remember her right, has been accorded much praise for her winning ways and easy bearings. Though she was older than myself at that time, and the center of attraction among the distinguished prisoners, all of whom seemed anxious to win her favor, I flatter myself that the famous female Spy took quite a fancy to me.

The gentleman whom I have called Mr. English was rather older than either of the little coterie that I had been invited to join. He was one of those fellows who have been everywhere and know everything; in short, a regular adventurer, after the style of the English novel. He was educated--at least, we all thought so--because he talked so glibly and knowingly about every conceivable thing, and incidentally mentioned some of the palaces he had visited, how he had been entertained by royalty. This, with an occasional hint as to the character of his family friends, and the accidental exhibition of a genuine coat-of-arms, convinced Miss Boyd and myself, in our inexperience with this sort of thing, that our friend was, of course, a disguised "juke," and from that time forth he was treated with the greatest deference by us, and ate the best part of our rations. Fortunately for me, he and Miss Belle Boyd did all the talking for the first few days. I became a quiet and admiring listener, had plenty of time in which to gather myself up, so as to be able to formulate my own story, when it should be called for.

But this everlasting Englishman talked so incessantly, and so agreeably, too, about his wonderful adventures, "in the bush, you know," while in the East India service, and in the Crimea, that, as I said, even Belle Boyd, who was a great talker, had but little show.

Our friend could sing, too, as well as talk; each evening the prisoners assembled in the "court-yard," while our glee club, on the balcony above, which was something like a stage, led by the Englishman, who bossed everything, you know, furnished entertaining music. We had every song in the whole list well rendered. It is easier to mention what was not sung than to begin to tell all that were given by this improvised club. Among those we never heard was the Star Spangled Banner, and kindred airs. We had Dixie for reveille, dinner and tea, and it was Dixie for a doxology at taps.

We had regular taps and hours in O. C. P. just as they have in camp outside. At bed-time everyone was made to "douse his glim" with as much strictness as if we were all aboard a man-of-war at Fort Pickens.

While I played the Rebel inside the prison for a purpose, because, as I have said, I determined the first day not to beg off, and it came sort of natural for me to ventilate a little against Stanton, I became awfully bored by the everlasting Rebel talk, and especially so at the Englishman's predictions, that we would all become willing "subjects of Her Majesty before long."

I must do the most violent Rebel prisoner the credit for resenting this sort of talk, every time it was broached in O. C. P.

One evening the Englishman was, as usual, entertaining the assembled crowd with his melodious bellowing of "Brittania Rules the Waves;" he could do that song up in the most approved operatic style; indeed, my later judgment is that the fellow must have been an opera singer among his other accomplishments. He sang this beautiful song standing before the prisoners in the most effective stage style, expecting, as a matter of course, to be applauded and encored at the end of the act. Instead of that, however, in a quiet, slow-speaking voice, I suggested involuntarily: "How about the Monitor and Merrimac?"

The question seemed so apt, and put in such a sly way, that it seemed to act as a match that exploded a slumbering mine. The Englishman never before had such applause, accompanied with loud laughter. It was a continuous "howl" for a few minutes. We retired that night, laughingly discussing the Englishman and the Monitor.

The incident served to break up the singing services, and after that we heard less of England. It also shows that, even among the United States Rebel prisoners in the Old Capitol Prison, in 1862, there was a smoldering or banked-up fire of genuine patriotism yet burning, that only needed a little stirring or poking up, to cause it to break out into a great flame.

I will not burden this narrative with this Englishman's story. His history, and especially his secret services for the Rebellion, as he related it every day in the three weeks that I was obliged to listen to his everlasting talk, would, to use a common term, fill a book.

He was evidently enamored of Miss Boyd, and the plans of these two Rebel Spies, after they should be released, were from day to day discussed in my hearing.

Belle Boyd's operations as a Spy, had been carried on principally in the Valley, where I was not at all known. During our many hours of confidential chat together, I learned from her, under pretense of expecting to use the information in getting South, when I should "escape," the names and location of those people along the Upper Potomac and in Washington, who could be depended upon as "our friends," or as we called them in those days, "Rebel sympathizers."

The list was extensive, and embraced some Washington "officials."

If my services had not resulted in anything else, this information alone, which I gained as an involuntary Spy, was of sufficient importance to compensate for all my troubles. Of course, it will be understood here that Belle Boyd never once suspected my true character. She had heard me denounced by the officials of the prison as a "dangerous man." Indeed, without egotism, I may be allowed to say that, at that particular time, I was looked upon by the prisoners and attendants as a "remarkable character," to put it modestly.

I did not suspect at this time that I was the object of so much quiet Rebel homage and attention, else I might have conducted myself differently, and exhibited some vanity over the reputation I then enjoyed. As it was, I was set down as one of the quietest, least troublesome of all Colonel Woods' guests. That was my Old Capitol Prison record in brief; and I don't know now whether I should boast of it or not. Probably I do not deserve any credit at all for the simple facts were, that I was so sick at heart, and yet so stubborn in disposition, that I had neither inclination or desire to speak a word to anybody, and wanted to be let alone.

My brother called to see me the second day after my arrival, accompanied by some officious fellow from General Eckert's War Department Office, whose name I have forgotten.

When Colonel Woods personally called me down to his office, he said, in a kindly way, that my brother and a friend had called, and that, out of respect for us all, he would permit us to have a quiet interview, without any show of guards or the usual censorship of official attendants. I thought at the time that this was very kind in Colonel Woods, but I changed my mind after the interview had ended.

As I walked into the room, my brother stepped up to shake my hand, but the poor fellow broke down completely and could not utter a word. His exhibition of feeling surprised and, of course, affected me, and for the moment I more fully realized the effect that imprisonment was even then having on my father and friends in the world outside. With this came a reaction in an intense bitterness, engendered by the knowledge that I was being at least outrageously treated, so that I became in a moment, even in the presence of my heart-broken brother, as cold and apparently as indifferent as the worst Rebel inside. It will be seen that this unjustifiable imprisonment had changed my whole nature for the time being. It had soured me, as it were, with the War Department Administration (but not with the country), as completely as a thunderstorm would have turned a glass of sweet cream into a cold thick mass of clabber.

The young fellow who accompanied my brother commenced to do the talking, expressing in his kindliest way, but in a drawling nasal tone, peculiar to a Down-east man who affects the moral-reform style, that has had the effect of setting me on edge ever since against this class of men, his "sincere regret at my unfortunate condition." His tone and manner not only put me on nettles, but his first proposition was, "Now, my dear boy, the best thing you can do, for your brother and yourself, is to freely confess to----."

That's all he said; he didn't get any further, because I snapped him up abruptly, saying, "Confess nothing; I'll do nothing of the kind, because there isn't anything to confess."

"But, my dear boy, why did you refuse to take the oath of allegiance? Surely if you----."

"Oh you go to ----. I'm not going to make any further explanations to you."

Then, turning to my brother, I quietly told him that Mr. Covode would explain matters; that I would not, if I stayed there forever, ask any favors from the War Office. My brother said that this man had been sent down as a witness to my denial, and it was only necessary for me to say in his presence that I would take the oath.

But, I could not honorably do that. I could not swear falsely to get out of prison, that "I had never borne arms nor belonged to an armed organization against the United States." And I would not perjure myself, even with the orders of Secretary Stanton, with a long imprisonment threatening me for disobedience.

And I did not. To make the long story short, I went back to prison. Colonel Woods, who had been called into the room and heard with surprise of my refusal to be released on such a "technicality," merely laughed as he escorted me back to quarters, fully satisfied in his own mind, no doubt, that I was a "case."

The Englishman and Belle Boyd had, of course, heard one side of his story of my "bribery," and, in consequence, became, if possible, more interested than ever in the development of my interesting case.

Realizing from this interview that I was simply at Mr. Stanton's mercy, and that he was most probably influenced by the War Department suckers whom I have mentioned, and who were envious or jealous of my independent and important telegraph or secret communications, I made up my mind that it was going to be a long siege in O. C. P. for me. The more I thought about it, and as each day's scanty news brought us fresh and exciting intelligence of the military doings in front of our army, I concluded impulsively that I wouldn't stay very long; that I must be on hand and once more outside. I would vindicate myself independently of Mr. Stanton's advisers.

Our mess was served by a caterer from the outside, as I have already explained. The meals were brought in three times a day, on a tray, by a colored boy, or a contraband. I had noticed from my room window that this colored boy came from that direction, and had, in consequence, learned to look out for his appearance as regularly as we got hungry, at each meal time, so that it became a daily question in our mess: "Is dinner in sight yet?"

The same boy brought it every day. He had to pass the quartette of guards in front of the house, and his basket was "subject to inspection" inside the hall before it could be admitted through the house.

But, as a matter of fact, the inspection became somewhat of a fraud, because the hungry guards selected the best bits of everything by way of sampling the contents, so that we held so many indignation meetings and bothered Colonel Woods so much with protests and complaints, that he was glad enough to arrange with a "trooly loil" cook, whom he could trust to not pack any papers in our grub. In this way our boy was permitted to pass unquestioned, as he became so well known to the regular attendants.

It occurred to me that it would be a good scheme to personate the colored boy, and walk out with the empty dishes, past the guard unquestioned, and so escape from the prison.

Looking up into the colored boy's face, I noticed that his ragged, old, white, straw-hat, always worn well pulled down over his curly head, half concealed a black face that, while it was not exactly similar to my own features, may be set down as being (with the exception of the black) about my "style," in age and general appearance, if I should black my face.

Playfully at first, I suggested to Belle Boyd a scheme of exchanging places with the boy, coloring my face, dressing in his coat and hat, and attempting to walk out with his tray.

She looked at the boy, then at me, and, with a hearty laugh, declared: "It's the very thing; let's do it."

Mr. English was, of course, consulted, and graciously gave his assent to the undertaking, provided he was allowed to "make me up," and to boss the job generally.

This suggestion was fully discussed between us during that and the days that followed; indeed, we talked of little else for a while. How to conceal the boy, inside, until I should get safely out of reach of the guards, was the most difficult part of the problem. The trouble that would ensue from my friend's complicity, if he should be detected, was also fully discussed, and a plausible way out of all these difficulties was arranged.

I was to borrow or buy from the boy, his old hat and coat, and the patched pants and torn shoes I would manufacture.

I was to be already blackened when he should come in, at a certain evening meal, that was usually served nearly at dark. While he was waiting on our table I was quickly to don his hat and coat, and, with the empty basket of rattling dishes, to boldly march out, as he had been in the habit of doing, into the street, and then trust to my legs for the balance. We were a long time in arranging all the details. Indeed, the occupation it gave to us all helped to pleasantly pass hours that might otherwise have been distressing.

Belle Boyd was as much interested in my outfit as any school-girl is over the dressing up of her new doll, while the Englishman gave me enough instructions and orders to carry me around the world. He was certainly an adept in the business.

During my three weeks at the Old Capitol Prison, I made a number of peculiar acquaintances that were quite interesting in the year which followed. As I am only to furnish that which pertains to myself personally, I will omit the mention of any other except to record my first acquaintance with a most universally-known war character.

The party to whom I refer will be recognized by every soldier, I may say without a single exception, in all the armies. I regret very much that I can not give his name in Latin, but in war talk it was the "Greyback," or, in plain United States--lice.

These detestable things were in Old Capitol as thick as they only can be, and, after my first contact, I may say frankly, they stuck to me closer than a brother "for three years or during the war." This was one of the "things" that "animated" me to get out of that dirty old building, that I might rush down to the Potomac and drown myself.

Old Capitol is now a beautiful block of fine residences, containing, to-day, probably as fine and as luxurious furniture and occupied by as refined people as are in the country, but, personally, I wouldn't live in it for anything, because I feel sure the bugs are in the walls yet.

The plan I proposed was entirely feasible; we all agreed on that; not one of us doubted but that I would be able to successfully accomplish the dangerous undertaking. It was dangerous only if I should be detected in the attempt, as it would certainly end in my being sent off to Fort Lafayette in New York Harbor, where I would probably be ironed and placed in a dungeon as a dangerous character, and be kept there, too, during the war. It never once occurred to me that to have been caught in attempting to escape, or to have succeeded in doing so, would have reacted against me disastrously, to the satisfaction of those who were so anxious that I should afford them some proof by which they might be able to more fully substantiate the charges of supposed disloyalty, that they had whispered into the ear of the Secretary of War. It was quite an easy matter in those days for the suckers, like Woods, Eckert, and the gang of Pinkerton suckers, and others, who were around the War Department, to poison the mind of the powers that were against any persons they may have selected as a target for their contemptible and cowardly persecution. It's a true story, well known among historians, that this was being done--in many cases where the victims were often men of great prominence and rank, that subsequent events proved to have been as loyal as the Secretary himself.

The Englishman's story, that I gathered from his continual gabble, would make a chapter in itself. I will only mention now that he was apparently in the service of at least some official of great prominence in the English Government. He told us of letters of introduction he brought to President Jefferson Davis and a number of the leading officers of the Rebel Government at Richmond; from ever so many "my lords" of high degree in England.

It was while endeavoring to reach Richmond through the Potomac blockade that he was captured, and, to his great disgust, all of his papers were "seized," as he said, "by some brutal soldiers, you know," and the vulgar officers absolutely declined to return his papers, and had actually been so preposterous as to send him under guard to "a vile prison."

That's about the style of his everlasting chin--from morning until night--and the fact that his accent, as well as his foreign airs of superiority and of contempt for the Yankees, necessarily accompanied the words, made him all the more disagreeable to me.

The most interesting part of his story is, as he in an unguarded moment, apparently, while talking with Miss Boyd, who had expressed a curiosity to know why he did not attempt to escape, too, confessed that the real object and purpose of his mission in this country, as he had been instructed before leaving England by his friend, was to purposely place himself in the way of arrest and imprisonment by the United States Government.

His papers were not of an incendiary character exactly, I suppose, and my recollection of it now is, that they were principally letters of introduction, which were prepared by English lords with the avowed purpose of being used by the bearer in making a "case," or difficulty, on account of his English citizenship, which would give them some grounds to make a claim for his release, that would create a breach, and bring about a war, all in the interests of the Southern people. This, in effect, was the story, and I took it all in very carefully.

One day, to my disgust as well as personal discomfort, Colonel Woods brought a gentleman to my door, whom he introduced as a fellow Rebel who would be compelled to share my room with me for awhile; because, as he explained, they were getting a little crowded. The party introduced to me, I recognized at once--that is I remembered seeing his face some place, but couldn't exactly place him; when Colonel Woods in a little further chat, intimated that my associate would no doubt be a boon companion, as he was an original Rebel, he left us alone.

My new room-mate was a man of thirty-five or forty years, with a face that I should now denominate as hard. He was pleasant; indeed, his manner was made especially agreeable to me. The story he told me of the cause of his imprisonment served to satisfy me--for the time being--that I had been in error in having supposed that I had ever seen him before.

He said he was arrested for having been implicated in an attempt to recapture and return to Virginia some fugitive slave whom he had caught in the District of Columbia. He gave me a long account of the law, as it then existed--which, by the way, is the fact--that in 1862 there was a fugitive slave law in the District.

As soon as my two comrades in distress heard of this associate having been thrust upon us, and dropped into our exclusive mess to become our company, their suspicions were aroused.

The Englishman declared that the object of putting "this person" in among us was to ascertain what we had been so thick about lately. I confess this had not once occurred to me. I was simply annoyed at being obliged to have the constant company of another person in my cramped little hall room; not that he was at all disagreeable personally, but probably because we three had become rather exclusive and wanted to select our company from among the convicts. It is likely enough that we would have resented any person's society from outside just then.

When the others expressed their conviction that it was a scheme to entrap us, my eyes became opened, as I recalled again my first impression, that I had certainly seen the man before. When I mentioned this fact to Miss Boyd, she at once jumped to the conclusion that he was a spy on us, which opinion was shared by the Englishman most decidedly, who gave us our orders as our commander to be on the qui vive for him.

It was thought best that we should treat him with the greatest possible coolness, but of course with decency. Indeed, our Englishman was so exceedingly polite and gracious to the new-comer that his assumed airs and comic actions were so amusing to Miss Boyd and myself that we could scarcely keep up our show of dignity. Miss Boyd performed the chilling process, and she acted the part so well that the poor man was frozen on to me, as the only one to whom he could talk sensibly. I talked lots to him when we were alone. The opinions, the very decided opinions, he got from me, on Mr. Stanton and his clerks, if repeated to his employers, would have made things more interesting for him and me too.

When I became satisfied, or thought I was, and imagined that I had for my room-mate or companion a Pinkerton man, who had been purposely sent in there by some of the War Department officials to manufacture testimony against us, we all took the greatest delight in filling him up.

The first night, when alone, I talked him to sleep. I told him all my grievances; at least, that part that I wanted the War Office to hear officially.

I was careful to only tell one story correctly, and that was the exact character and object of the Englishman's business in this country. I saw that my listener was interested in it from his actions and questionings, so that I gave him the full details, for a purpose. I knew, or suspected very strongly, that he would make a report of it to the Secretary, and I, as a victim of the Pinkerton clique, was willing that they, as detectives, should have the credit from the Secretary of unearthing that story.

My desire was to defeat the Englishman's purpose, and to benefit this Government, whose officials were persecuting me when I knew that I was entitled to a reward.

We made him sick; at least, the following day he complained of feeling unwell, and, under this pretense, he was allowed to go, ostensibly to the hospital, which was located in another part of the building.

His name was Horton or Norton, I have forgotten which. I learned, in a couple weeks following, that he was the detective we had suspected him of being. When I mentioned to my brother, that I had seen him before, he told me that I had probably met him in Eckert's telegraph room, at the War Office, where he had been specially employed.

When relieved of our unwelcome guest, we set about with renewed energy to put into operation the plan we had now about matured for my escape.

Miss Belle Boyd entered into the preparations for this scheme as school-girls plan their tableaux.

Her quick manner, or apt way of being able to change the subject of conversation, in case of occasional interruption was, to me, a source of great astonishment coupled with admiration.

One evening, by way of experiment, I was, with the assistance of Belle Boyd and the Englishman, completely rigged out in the colored boy's clothes. Corks had been gathered up and scientifically toasted, or burnt, over the lamp flame by our Englishman, who handled the business so familiarly that I am constrained now to think he was a disguised showman instead of a scion of a noble family.

I was dressed in the rags we had collected for the purpose, Belle managing this part of the job with as much glee and interest as if dressing a bride for a wedding. She would stick a pin in here, or tuck up a rag at another place, look at me critically, order me to turn around or walk off, as if I were trying on a new dress. The Englishman rubbed my face, and, after the manner of an artist, cocked his eye to get a better view of the effect of the last touch of shade, and then both would nearly explode with suppressed laughter at my ridiculous appearance.

I was instructed in the best way to show all my teeth at once, duly cautioned not to speak unless I was obliged to, and drilled in the broadest negro dialect, to which I was somewhat accustomed through my long residence in the South.

When all was satisfactory, after dark, the curtain was rang up and I was ushered out into the hundreds of assembled prisoners to try my disguise, by mixing promiscuously among them for a while. I entered boldly into the fun, and, with the feeling that, if detected, it would only be considered a good joke, as long as I was not attempting to use it as a means to pass the guard, I, in a happy, careless way, went through my part in such a satisfactory manner that even Miss Boyd and the Englishman, who were intently watching the play, involuntarily applauded me every time I happened to do a piece of silly business that tickled them.

As an amateur actor, my debut on that sort of a dangerous stage was satisfactory to the two patrons who were managing the "bringing me out."

I stepped up to Miss Boyd, who had been standing on the balcony watching the play, bowed low, and, in as broad a dialect as I could muster, requested her order for breakfast. She, in her quick way, had a smart reply:

"Sam, you ugly, good-for-nothing nigger, tell your master to use a scrubbing brush on you before you come to me again."

This, with some other unkind observation, which Miss Boyd addressed to the Englishman, as to the "villainous expression of that nigger's face," served to wind up the fun for me, when, at the first opportunity, I got behind my door and very quickly changed my color and clothes.

As an experiment, it was a complete success; so satisfactory that we agreed that there would be no trouble in my being able to pass the guards in this disguise, provided I could keep a stiff upper lip, and not become so nervous as to excite any suspicion. I was willing to risk that part of it. A day was set, which was to be Saturday evening of that week, only two days distant, for me to make the attempt.

I had minute directions from Belle Boyd as to the location of her Rebel friends--in Maryland and in Washington--who would furnish me assistance in getting back to the Rebel lines. Of these I made a careful mental note, and also procured from the lady some short notes of introduction.

If I had gone into that miserable prison as a Union Spy, with the object of gathering information from an intimate association with the inmates, I could not have hoped to be as successful in this direction as I had been while I was acting as an involuntary Spy.

It so happened, and I take pleasure in recording it, as something almost supernatural, or in the line of that providence that seemed always to be with me, and to control my actions at the right time, that at the very time I was arranging all these details in my room, preparatory to an escape in the evening, a visitor was in the prison waiting to see me.

As I have so often said, while in the prison I had positively and even stubbornly declined to ask any consideration at the hands of the Secretary of War or his whelping advisers. This singular feeling I shall not attempt to excuse now, simply stating the facts. It was a mistake; but my whole life seems to have been made up of mistakes. The effect of it was to estrange from me even my best friends, and my brother who, on account of the confidential relations he held in the War Telegraph Office, was afraid to become too openly interested in my case.

Rather to my surprise, I was notified on this Saturday afternoon by one of the regular prison attendants that I was wanted in Colonel Woods' office. Of course I suspected at once that our little game had been found out, and that I was to be called upon for an explanation. This subject of escaping had been in my mind so much lately that I could not for the time think that anything else was probable. As if further to confirm my suspicions, the attendant who brought the summons to me said, in his polite but positive way, "I am ordered to stay with you, and you are to take anything you have along, as there is to be some change made in your case."

I had not brought anything with me to the prison in the way of baggage, and had really less to take away, excepting the greybacks, which we had always with us. My only baggage was my light wearing apparel, with the Bible which Mrs. Wells had given to me.

The purpose in thus suddenly summoning prisoners to headquarters was to prevent their relieving themselves of anything incendiary which a search of the person might have disclosed.

My request to be permitted to see Miss Boyd was politely refused by the attendant, who explained his refusal by saying, his orders were to take me at once to the office and to prevent any communication. I saw that it was no use to reason or argue with that New Hampshire Yankee--he had his orders and was going to obey them to the letter--so, gathering up my coat, slipping it on nervously, and, donning my hat, I was at his side, and in a few minutes more was inside Colonel Woods' office.

To my astonishment, I saw my brother and some stranger seated in the office chatting cheerfully with Colonel Woods. The greeting of Spencer on this occasion was so entirely different from the first visit, when he had involuntarily broken down on seeing me, that I was further surprised by his clapping me on the back, in his old-time brotherly way, and saying, "Well, boy, we are going to take you away from here."

I don't know what I said or did; probably the first feeling was one of disappointment that I was to be deprived of the fun of escaping; but, quickly realizing the fact that I had almost overlooked that there was a world outside, I joined pleasantly in the greetings until it was explained that there were some little preliminaries to be arranged, in the way of signing some papers.

When my brother's friend spoke up in explaining this, and observed that the Secretary was "disposed to be lenient in my case," a feeling of resentment came over me, which might have broken out in some expression, if my brother had not whispered: "Father wants you to go home, and says Covode will arrange everything right there."

The mention of my father, and a request from him has, under all conditions and circumstances of my checkered life, been respected, and, if possible, complied with. It has been my observation, too, that I have never made a mistake while acting under his advice, and, also, that I have always found it disastrous to disregard his injunctions. In this case my father's simple request had more effect than the Secretary's mandate.

An examination of the little papers that the messenger from Mr. Stanton presented to be in duplicate, showed at a glance that it was simply a parole of honor, without any conditions or penalties, by which I agreed not to go south of a certain point, until authorized or released from the parole.

Knowing that I could secure the necessary release through my friends, and, after a word of kind advice by Colonel Woods, I attached my name to the paper in duplicate, took one with me, and walked out of the door a free man, with my gratified brother, while the other copy was taken to the War Department, and is on record there to-day, as a proof that I was in the Old Capitol Prison during this time, as stated.

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Chapter XXVIII

FIRED OUT OF OLD CAPITOL PRISON--"DON'T COME HERE AGAIN!"--MY FRIEND THE JEW SUTLER--OUT IN A NEW RIG--AT THE CANTERBURY THEATRE.

I was fired out of Old Capitol Prison as suddenly and unexpectedly to myself as I had been run into the old trap.

When I said something to the officials about my own expenses, the Colonel handed me a copy of the parole, saying in a jocular manner: "There is your receipt in full; that paper clears you. Get out, now, and don't come back here again."

I went out with my brother and his companion, first to a "haberdashery," kept by a sutler Jew on the avenue. He was one of the fellows whom I, as a railroad official at Fredericksburg, had granted some special favors in the way of getting his goods into the army, through the Provost Guards.

At the time, the fellow was all smiles, or rather grins, because in the position I then occupied, I had been able to secure him special facilities to carry on his profitable army trading business. I thought, of course, from the gushing way he had talked to me then, that he would be my everlasting friend, as he had so freely expressed his gratitude to me and desired to make me presents. Naturally I looked him up the first thing when I discovered that my neat wardrobe had become sadly in need of replenishing during the month. I wanted some clean, fresh clothing, "cheap for cash." We found the fellow easily enough; but, dear me! circumstances had altered cases with him. When I made known my errand, and asked an outfit on small payment, the broad open-mouthed grin of the ugly fellow closed up tight as an oyster, and his face became solemn as a patriarch as he began the lamentation of Jacob over his losses by the evacuation of Fredericksburg.

Through my brother Spencer's assistance, I was soon supplied with an entirely new and fresh outfit from the skin out. At first my demands for a complete rig rather struck my brother as being a little extravagant, but when I had explained that one of the tortures Mr. Stanton inflicted upon his victims at the Old Capitol was the persistent bugs that the building was infested with, he let go my arm as suddenly as if he had experienced an electric shock, sidled off from me, and, without another word of argument, fully agreed with me that the only and first thing to do was to get rid of everything--clothes and all, from hat to socks. Carrying my bundle to a barber shop, I had my hair cut, took a bath, donned my new suit, and generously donated my old clothes to the colored barber.

Disguised in a new suit of clothes, I walked the streets of Washington an hour after having left the prison. The first place I desired to visit was the War Department. I felt that I had some urgent business with some of the officials up there, that I was anxious to relieve my mind of at once.

My brother and his companion objected. This mutual friend called my attention to the parole, which I had carelessly left in my old clothes in the barber shop. I was gently reminded that I had agreed to go north of a certain point at once, and was not to return south of that line until properly authorized to do so by the War Office.

Instead of going to the train that evening, I went to the "Canterbury Theatre," an institution on Louisiana avenue as well known by old soldiers who spent a day in Washington as any of the War relics.

While seated in the theater, which was crowded by officers, soldiers, citizens, adventurers, sutlers, clerks, politicians, army contractors, etc., I was immensely amused when a pair of country officers, dressed up in full uniform, each wearing belt, sash and saber, strutted down the crowded aisle, their accoutrements of war rattling at every step, making so great a noise that it disturbed Johnny Hart, a negro comedian then on the stage, who abruptly stopped his performance, stepped up to the footlights, and addressed the noisy incomers: "Say, why in hell didn't you bring your horses too?"

This brought the house down, and had the effect of silencing that part of the audience that brought their camp and garrison equipage to the theatre.

It was not so much of a joke, however, when a little later on an army officer led a Corporal's Guard, armed with loaded muskets and bayonets stuck into their guns, down the aisle, and at a lull in the performance, came to an "order arms," while this shrewd officer of the Washington Provost Guard demanded the passes of every one in the audience who wore a uniform. I felt quite uneasy when they actually arrested and took out of the same bench on which I sat two commissioned officers who could not show passes.

Fortunately I was not disturbed, but I lost all interest in the show, and soon retired to quarters where the Provost Guard couldn't find me.

The only thing I could hear from Covode in relation to our own embarrassing affairs was: "Oh, that's all right; just tell him that it will be all right."

It was true, though not much of a consolation for me, to be reminded by some kind friends that I was not alone a sufferer by Mr. Stanton's arbitrary orders. Even General McClellan had been not only relieved from command of the army, but had been ordered to proceed to Burlington, N. J., and there await orders. This I was told meant, in reality, exile for him in precisely the same manner as for my own humble self, though the phraseology of the order was a little different from that in my parole.

I went home, where I was affectionately received into my father's house by my sisters and my aunts--I had no mother then. Probably, if I had not so early in life been deprived of a mother, I would have been saved, by her teachings, from many of the hard knocks which I was receiving by way of bitter experience. My father, always kind and indulgent, seemed to think that it was our privilege and right to pitch in for ourselves, that we might learn from experience. He seldom gave his boys any of that "I told you so" advice, in the threatening manner which renders it so inoperative.

I had made up my mind, while in the Old Capitol Prison, that when I should get free again the very first thing I should do would be to enlist as a private soldier in the Union Army.

I reasoned to myself that my services as a Scout or Spy, while working as a civilian in the interest of the politicians at Washington, would not advance my military ambition. In fact, I had learned from some hard hits already that it was an uphill business to operate in the field as a civilian. Somehow or other, all the military people were not exactly distrustful, but there seemed to be at least a prejudice against any person about the camp who did not wear a uniform. I was willing and anxious enough to wear a uniform, but my ambition was to be an officer in the Regular Service, attached to Headquarters Staff.

This, as I have said, was about as difficult to reach as the position of Brigadier-General in the Volunteers, because they were making Brigadier-Generals every day, and they were not making Second Lieutenants in the Regular Army.

I explained my plans to my father and a few friends. My father interposed some objections to my selection of the Regular Army, preferring that I should identify myself with some regiment from our own State, and especially from our own neighborhood.

I preferred the Regular Cavalry first, because I intended fitting myself, by the experience I should gain in the ranks under the severe discipline and drill, for a Second Lieutenancy in that branch. My father thought that I would not be able to stand the restraints the discipline would impose upon me; but, as usual, I had my own way, overcoming their preference for the State troops, by the reminder that the treatment I had received from the Secretary of War would serve as a club in the hands of malcontents and growlers, who are to be found in every regiment, kicking against new-comers' advancement.

Another difficulty was raised by the receipt of a letter from my brother, at Washington, which reminded my father that I was not allowed to remain at my home, because it was located south of the line of my stipulated parole.

The War Department detectives had tracked me even into my own home, through the connivance of some contemptible neighbors, who are descendants of the Revolutionary Hessians, and like the craven dogs they were, they helped to hound me away from my father's home. To relieve my father and friends of any embarrassment, I left the house, after bidding them another "Good-by," one evening, arriving in Pittsburgh before midnight of the same day. The first thing the next morning I hunted up the recruiting office, astonished the officers by offering myself, and without any preliminaries enlisted into Company B, Second United States Cavalry, Captain T. F. Rodenbaugh.

When I applied for enlistment I never once thought of the bounty money I would become entitled to, therefore my entry into the army in the fall of 1862 was in no sense mercenary. I had served a year previously as a civilian and knew what was in store for me in the ranks.

I was not even "in the draft," as my parole would have relieved me from every obligation, if I had chosen so to use it. I volunteered from motives of duty and patriotism in 1862, at a time when recruiting was not so brisk as it had been; in fact, at a time when everything looked dark enough for our side.

Instead of availing myself of the parole that cleared me from obligation, I, in the darkest days of the war voluntarily enlisted as a private soldier. I felt in my heart that, in thus putting my life in pawn for the cause I had from the first consistently championed, that I would forever put beyond discussion the question of the sincerity of my motives, and I became credited to Alleghany County, Pennsylvania, so that, after all, I was a "regular volunteer" from my own State and County.

Through the thoughtfulness of Captain Rodenbaugh, I was paid some bounty money, which I expended in the purchase of mementoes for my friends, believing that I should never again come home to them.

In the matter of my get-up as a soldier, Captain Rodenbaugh was quite useful to me, and became quite pleasantly interested, taking the trouble to accompany me to the tailor shop, where he gave the necessary directions as to the regulation pattern.

I was to act as his private secretary or company clerk, and I suspect that he also intended to use my good clothes as a sort of a dressed-up dummy, to stand around the office with white gloves on, as a decoy to entice recruits to his roll, pretty much as we see the "walking sign" now a days at recruiting offices.

In the Second Cavalry, the facings, instead of being the ordinary "yaller" of the cavalry, were of an orange color, to distinguish them as the "Dragoons," as they were listed previous to the reorganization of that service just before the war.

I was made a Corporal by the Captain, and had the stripes in a beautiful orange on my arms. The cap was the regulation little fatigue or McClellan style, with the crossed sabers, and the insignia of company and regiment in brass letter--B 2.

At my earnest solicitation, Captain Rodenbaugh sent me away with the first detachment of recruits to Cavalry Headquarters, then Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania. Here I had a regular circus every hour of the day, from reveille till retreat or tattoo. It's only those who have seen cavalry recruits drilled with regular cavalry horses and old drilled Sergeants, that can be made to believe the stories that are told of their accomplishments in this direction.

Carlisle Barracks was in crude form, just what the West Point Riding School of to-day is. I was anxious to learn to be a good soldier, and I did learn a good deal--in a mighty short time, too--while I was at Carlisle. I was taught some things there that I thought I had learned thoroughly before I went there. For instance, I had been a long time in Western Texas, and had ridden wild and bucking horses without a saddle, chased buck-rabbits in a zigzag course over hog-wallow prairies in a reckless way that made my head dizzy, but it was reserved for my Drill Sergeant at Carlisle Barracks to show me how simple a matter it was for a trained cavalry horse to throw off a Texas cow-boy. Those old Sergeants--and there were a number of them--had the drill horses trained so thoroughly, and withal so full of tricks, that they beat Buffalo Bill and any circus horses I've ever seen all to pieces.

It was lots of fun for the Sergeants and a few officers and their wives, who were always watching our evolutions from their barrack windows, but it was a little bit rough on some of the boys.

We were given lessons in mounting and dismounting by the hour, till I became so expert that I was relieved of that part of the drill and advanced into a squad who had been there some time, and were soon to be sent off to the front as graduates. We were all obliged to hold the bridle-rein in one and the same way; that is, in the left hand, turned up so that we could see the finger-nails. All the steering had to be done by merely turning or twisting the clenched hand around, keeping it in the same position. There was no hauling back of the reins permitted, except by drawing the hand straight up to the chin to check or tighten the lines; and the forearm must be always directly in front of the pommel of the saddle.

This part of the riding lesson was all new to me. I had always used my hands as I pleased, but here we must all hold the infernal wild horses with one hand turned upside down, and dare not even yank the elbow around without getting a cuss from the Sergeant. There were always two or three Sergeants to each drill; one gave the commands from his position in front, while another old rascal rode behind somewhere to watch our arms and legs and to do the extra cussing.

Some of the fellows in our squad had been farmer boys, and felt that they knew all about horses, and were disposed at first to talk horse with the Sergeants; but one lesson in deportment answered for the whole term at Carlisle Barracks.

Those old fellows all said they would far rather take a city man who had never been on a horse than a farmer who had been riding all his life. The city fellows made good Regular Cavalrymen. We learned to ride with our knees and to steer with the legs.

At first our little caps would not stay on top of our heads, but we soon became able to balance them, with the strap dangling under the nose or chin, instead of being fastened under the chin.

These old war-horses had been at the barracks a long time, and had been carefully trained to go by the bugle. At the sound "trot," they would all start off as neatly, with the left foot foremost, as any infantry squad. When the "gallop" was sounded every old horse would switch his tail, take the bit in his teeth and go off like a shot over the field, helter-skelter, as if it were a hurdle race, or the whole Rebel Army were after them. This part of the show is where the most of the fun came in. Of course, some of the riders couldn't keep time with the horses, and their caps and sabers would become troublesome appendages, and were often cast off; then the old Sergeant, bringing up the rear, would yell like a Comanche Indian, which none of us could understand, and, as everybody thought it was necessary we should hear, it had the effect of rattling the whole squad. One of our first lessons was that never, under any circumstances, must we speak to our horses; everything must be done quietly and effectively by bit and spur; but when they got to running us off by the bugle, some of the farmer boys, when they would be tossed up too much, involuntarily sang out, "Whoa!" or else, too audible, cursed the man alongside for jamming their legs. This would bring down such a torrent of abuse on the head of the offender that we were kept in a state of terror from the time we were on the horses till we dismounted.

The Sergeant, or perhaps an officer, after getting the squad well under way, would sound "to the right," and, of course, the horses knew what the bugle said and obeyed the signal instantly; but most of the riders didn't, and were, in consequence, involuntarily going straight ahead or fell off at the unexpected turn of the horse. Then, on the home-stretch, they would so abruptly sound a "halt," that the horses would stop in two jumps, while the rider very likely went straight ahead.

I'm telling you the truth about Carlisle Barracks and the Regular Cavalry. I've been there--several times--and know it all pretty well. Why, it's a fact, that those old horses would, at the command "right dress," as soberly turn their one eye down the line and back up a step or forward as any infantry regiment; and on the wheel the inside horse always marked time beautifully, while the fellow on the outside had to gallop.

I had lots of fun during the couple of weeks that I was at Carlisle Barracks. Probably because I entered with so much zest and earnestness into the drill, which was really sport for me. I attracted the attention (favorably) of the Sergeants and officers, and was so rapidly advanced that my request to be sent to the front with the first detachment was approved. In this ambition Captain Rodenbaugh seconded me, as he had been relieved of recruiting duty, and was ordered to conduct the first party to the front.

We left one cold day in November, via Harrisburg, traveling all night in a box-car attached to a freight train. We were delayed all the next day in Baltimore, putting in the time standing around in the cold, miserable streets, under guard, awaiting our transportation over the slow Baltimore & Ohio to Washington. The second night we reached Washington, and slept on the floor of the barn-like affair they called the Soldiers' Retreat, then located down by the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad Depot. A great many soldiers will remember that shanty.

Early next morning, before any of my comrades were awake, I was up about daybreak, anxious to get a look at Washington, and especially Old Capitol Prison, through the glasses of a Union soldier. It was a bitter cold morning; so early as 5 A. M., when I went to the door of our barracks, I was astonished to see, wrapped up in his big blue overcoat, the snow blowing all over him, and standing almost up to his knees in it, our Captain, C. F. Rodenbaugh.

I did not know then that it was an officer's duty, and one of his privileges, to stand around all night in the cold, while his men slept comfortably under shelter. I said something like this to the Captain, when he courteously answered that he was the officer in charge, and it was his duty to see that the sentries were on hand. It was an early lesson; and I will say right here that the Regular officers, though severe and strict in discipline, I found always ready to expose themselves before they asked their men to do so. Apparently the Regular officers held themselves aloof from their men, and though I was almost intimate with Captain Rodenbaugh, I would not have ventured to address him, except in the way of duty, and then only after a proper salute, after we had gotten out in the field. Yet, if I could have met him alone or unobserved, I should have been as free with him as with my best friend. This matter of Regular Army etiquette was fully understood as part of our drill, and the subject never gave us any uneasiness, but in all probability saved us much trouble. There were no favorites in our service; every man was treated alike, and as long as every man did his duty, right up to the scratch, in Regular Army style, he was as independent as any officer, in his way. I had some queer experiences in this way, which I will relate further on.

I was in Washington again, and, strange to say, we were camped for the first night right in sight of the Old Capitol Prison.

Mr. Stanton, the autocrat Secretary of War, failed entirely to suppress me. With all his arbitrary exercise of authority he could not keep me away from the front. Locking me up in Old Capitol Prison only detained me temporarily. If I had not been released I certainly should have escaped the same day.

The first visit I made in Washington after my return there as a soldier was to the Capitol.

Armed with a pass, duly approved by the Provost-Guard officers, and dressed up in my Sunday uniform, I called the member of Congress from my home District from his seat out into the corridor (Mr. Covode being absent), where I bluntly and briefly explained that I had been given a parole not to come South until released, but being satisfied in my own heart that it was a wrong to me, and injustice had been done through the envy and malice of some War Department officials, I had, upon the advice of such men as Covode, decided to enlist in the army, and they had formally notified the Secretary of my intention of so doing.

I had not officially been advised that "I was forgiven," and desired Mr. Blair to see the Secretary and arrange the matter for me. He looked at me with astonishment at first, and then, realizing the absurdity of the thing, laughed heartily, saying "Why, of course, that's all right; they would not dare to annoy you any further."

I was, further, most kindly assured that my friends in Congress would all see me through, in case I had any difficulties on that score.

I left the Capitol, going straight to the War Department, where I endeavored to get an interview with the Secretary, but, dear me, a soldier--a common soldier--only a little Corporal in the Dragoon's uniform--presuming to address the Secretary of War, was something so unheard of among the old regular attendants about the door that they were disposed to fire me out of the up-stairs window for my effrontery. I had found it difficult as a civilian to reach the Secretary of War on several former occasions, but I learned, to my disgust, that as a soldier it was entirely impossible.

The lesson in the Regular Army etiquette which I took that day, burned itself so bitterly and deeply into my heart that I never attempted afterward to address anything higher than a First Sergeant in the Regular Army, except through the regular channels.

On account of an accident that happened me at Carlisle, I was permitted by Captain Rodenbaugh to sleep in a boarding-house during the first days after our arrival at Washington City, or until horses were issued to us. At Carlisle there was an old horse widely known among all the Regular cavalrymen who have been there as "Squeezer." At stable-call, I had noticed the men in the squad to which I had been advanced, all showed a singular alacrity in rushing to the task of cleaning their horses as soon as we broke ranks for this purpose. I learned by an experience that came near being serious, that this was caused not so much by anxiety of the troopers to clean horses, as to avoid a certain stall which Squeezer occupied.

Squeezer was a good-enough horse outside of his stall, or away from a fence-post or the side of a house. The trouble with him was, that he would invariably catch the man detailed to curry him against the side of the stall, and the vicious beast would deliberately put the weight of his whole body against the man so caught, to try and crush his bones. The only satisfaction the old horse seemed to get out of the dirty trick was, in listening to the cries of pain the poor fellow so caught was obliged to give vent to.

The Sergeants in charge of the stables were up to Squeezer's tricks so well that they always carried a sharp-pointed saber-blade to the stable, which was the only thing, well struck in, that would make the old rascal let go his hold of a victim.

It was the custom to let the recruit get caught by this horse trick, and I, as the latest in our squad, suffered the penalty. Squeezer put his haunches up against my breast and forced me up against the board stall until the bones began to crack, when the Sergeant kindly gave him the steel, and he let go of me, but began to kick viciously at the Sergeant. I was hurt badly, and suffered severely from it for some days. I learned afterward that every man in our squad carried a saddler's awl as part of the outfit, and when Squeezer became too affectionate with the man to whose lot it fell to tackle him, he kept the awl in one hand and the brush in the other, and used them alternately.

It was one of the games of the men to lay for a chance to catch the old Sergeant near his heels, when they would give Squeezer an inch of the awl, and the heels would reach for the Sergeant in a style that took all the military dignity out of him.

For a few days our detachment was encamped in the roughest kind of barracks, located on Capitol Hill, near Old Capitol. We drew our rations of soft bread, but our meat was the regulation pickled pork, fished out of the original barrels on the spot. I recall now, with a good deal of surprise to myself, the truth that there ever was a time in Washington when I had to take my slice of raw pork on a slice of bread, standing in two inches of snow, warming up with a quart of black coffee drank from a tin cup.

I am at the present writing a resident of this same Capitol Hill, within gunshot of the Old Capitol Prison and this former camp-ground. We would consider it a great hardship to be deprived of any of the comforts and pleasures to be extracted from a residence in this beautiful city.

How few of those who now enjoy the blessings of this great Government ever think that all of these pleasures were made possible for the children by the willing sacrifices and hardships of their parents in 1861-65.

After many unsatisfactory days spent about the old barracks on the Hill, we were at length ordered into camp near Fort Albany, Virginia. This fort was located on the high ground just beyond the Long Bridge, close by Fort Corcoran, or between the Long Bridge and Arlington.

I was at heart greatly rejoiced to find myself once more in old Virginia, even if it were only over the Long Bridge and the Potomac River. Though yet in sight, I was out of Washington, and safely beyond the reach of the meddlesome War Department detectives, who had become so numerous and about as thoroughly despised as were the army insect pests. It does not speak so well for the shrewdness or effectiveness of Mr. Pinkerton's corps, that I am able to record the truthful fact that they had not, with all their vaunted facilities of telegraph and military and civil police connections, been able to locate me, or discover that I, who had been represented to the Secretary of War as a dangerous man, was freely circulating all over Washington City.

Had I been so disposed, it would have been a simple matter to have concocted much mischief, with the aid of information I had obtained in the Old Capitol of Rebel sympathizers who were living in the city. Miss Boyd had given me the names and addresses of pretty nearly everybody she had known as a friend of the South; but I made no use of this myself, except to give the information in writing to Covode's committee.

At our camp, near Fort Albany, we were quartered in the regulation Sibley tent, which all old soldiers will recognize without further description. As the company clerk, or private secretary of our Captain, I was pleasantly provided for in the First Sergeant's tent. There were but the two of us in the big concern, because we had to make room for the desks or writing-table and other storage for the company papers.

It is a little curious that I was selected to do precisely this same duty by the Rebels in their capital.

Through the good management of the Captain and the First Sergeant, who were, of course, my friends, and looked after my interests in the company while I was busy on the papers, I was supplied with a real beauty of a horse. He was one of the black Morgan type, a little small, but oh, my! I suspect that the Captain became personally solicitous about my being handsomely mounted, as I found myself detailed to act as an Orderly to himself and the other officers almost every time they rode into the city.

My little nag was what may be termed frisky and spirited. I am talking all this horse now, because in the days and weeks and months that immediately followed "Frisky" took an important part in all the adventures that I had. From this time forth most of my experiences were somewhat of a dashing character, dressed, as I was, in a neat uniform, and well mounted on a horse. One little trick of Frisky's will serve to illustrate better than I could describe in many words the nature of the animal.

The stable, in the field, you know, was simply a parallelogram composed of ropes tied to posts driven in the ground. Inside of this the horses were tied to the ropes. At every stable-call I usually went out to attend to my own horse, so as to get a chance to ride bareback to water. At a certain signal, all hands mounted their horses, and at the command all filed out of the ropes, under the leader, toward the water. Frisky, being well to the rear of the column the first time I got on him, astonished me and surprised the officer in command by suddenly jumping at a clear leap over the top of the rope and running off toward the head of the line. So that, at every water-call, it got to be a regular show for the officers to come around to Frisky's side of the corral to see him jump over the rope instead of marching around in the rear of the others.

I was at least as good a horseman as any of the rest of our batch of recruits, and probably my experience in Texas, supplemented by the lessons at Carlisle, had made me quite proficient in the regulation style of marching my horse.

We frequently rode over to Washington to spend an evening. I had lots of fun, but no adventures that I care to put in print. Nearly every Sunday a couple of us would get permission and passes and ride up to what was then called the Arlington House, and thence through the lines of heavy artillery sentries about the fortifications, over the Aqueduct Bridge, to Georgetown and Washington.

At last we were ordered to the front. I do not now remember the exact date, but it was sometime in December.

This is engrafted on my memory by the fact that the "front"--as the history of the war shows--was then at or near Fredericksburg, the same grand old historic town, so dear to my memory, from which I have been escorted a prisoner to the Old Capitol only a couple of months before.

But I was going back--so the fates had decreed, in spite of Stanton--to this very same place; not exactly the same place, as the Rebel Army occupied the town most of the time; but we were going to get as close as we could to it, and be neighborly, without getting into a fight.

Another circumstance which impresses this date upon my mind is, that I spent my Christmas of 1862 on the Rappahannock with the boys of the old Army of the Potomac.

I was as happy as a boy with a new pair of boots when the orders came for us to draw five days' rations and get ready to move. As company clerk, being in the ring, as it were, with the First Sergeant, I was privately advised that we were to go to the front, so that I got all the papers in my possession in shape, and had everything so packed away before the Sergeant was ready that I had to open up the box for him again.

I supposed, as a matter of course, we would ride our horses right through Fairfax to Fredericksburg, going the route leading somewhere near the old trail I had footed so faithfully while I was in the Rebel lines.

I had not told anybody in our company--not even my good friend Captain Rodenbaugh--of my previous experiences in Virginia.

It will be readily understood that I was not anxious to disclose these things, which had given me so much trouble; in fact, I desired above all things to conceal them.

When I heard of the proposed movement, I went to the Captain personally, and took occasion to tell him that I knew something of the road to Fredericksburg, and felt competent to act as guide for the regiment, and offered my services in that direction.

The Captain looked at me for a moment, then, with a significant smile, he took my breath away by observing, pleasantly:

"Well, yes, Corporal, I understand you have had some experience down here that would seem to make you familiar with the roads; but it has been ordered that we march down through Maryland on the other side of the Potomac."

Though the Captain's manner was so agreeable and assuring, I was so astonished by the revelation that he, of all others, had learned of my private history, that I was for the moment so taken down I could hardly look him in the face. I felt as though I had been deceiving my best friend, and he had caught me in the act, as it were. When I ventured to offer some explanation, the Captain, in his courteous way, said: "Why, my dear boy, that's all right; we all--that is, the officers--have heard of your services, and, as a consequence, you have in advance plenty of friends in the regiment."

I was gratified to hear this from him, and asked no further questions as to his source of information, but ever after that I was further convinced not only of the Captain's kindly feeling toward me, but of the other officers as well, by the fact that, on almost every important occasion, I was honored by being selected for special Orderly duty with the officers.

We marched or rode our squadron out of Fort Albany camp one cold, damp December morning, crossed the Long Bridge, passed through the lower part of the city, up over Capitol Hill, where I got a farewell glimpse of Old Capitol Prison from under my fatigue cap, seated on a horse, going to the front.

We crossed the old bridge, beyond the Navy Yard, over the Eastern Branch, went up over the hill, and were soon out of sight of Washington, traveling all day over the same route that Wilkes Booth took in his flight to Virginia the night of the assassination.

The next morning we reached the river at some point, and put in all that day in getting our horses and baggage ferried across about four miles of water.

The next night we slept on the sacred soil at or near Aquia Creek, in Virginia--precisely the same point from which I had embarked as a first-class passenger in charge of an officer en route to Old Capitol Prison.

The following day we marched over a long, wind-about road to cover the fourteen miles from the Potomac to the Rappahannock. How shall I write it, but that evening at sundown, as soon as I could beg the privilege, I rode my horse down to the Lacey House, which, as all old soldiers know, is located on the banks of the Rappahannock directly opposite Fredericksburg. The Rappahannock river only was between me and Geno; but, oh! my heart ached when I realized what a great gulf it was; and that was as near as I could get to Fredericksburg. Though at this point it is but a narrow stream--so narrow indeed that a conversation in an ordinary tone of voice could be carried on over it--I could not, except under the penalty of being at once shot to death by our own or the rebel forces, make even the slightest attempt at signaling to the other shore. The Rebel Army occupied that side.

I could see walking about the streets some few persons in citizen's clothes, but all along the river, and at the foot of the street leading to the river, were armed men in gray uniforms. They had possession of the town that held all that was dear to me just then--little Geno Wells.

I lingered until the early twilight of that December evening began to drop down like a curtain; then with a heavy heart I rode slowly back to our own camp, determined in my own mind and heart that I should get into that town somehow, in spite of our own and the Rebel Army.

In my hurry to go down to the river, I had not taken sufficient care to get the bearings of our newly-located camp, and on my return at dark I experienced considerable difficulty in finding my way home. In my bewilderment, I ran afoul of so many camps and extra sentries that I was detained until quite late.

Our regiment was acting as Provost-Guard at Gen. Burnside's headquarters, and, as almost everybody knew where headquarters were to be found, I finally got on the right track.

It was fortunate for me, personally, that we were at headquarters, as I was enabled to at once make acquaintances that became useful to me.

With what exalted feelings I should have rushed over one of those pontoon bridges and charged up the streets to Geno's house, if I had been there at the right time, may be imagined. The anxiety and eagerness with which she must have looked for me among the first of the invaders I must leave to the imagination or fancy of the romantically-disposed young lady readers who may be following this narrative.

Captain Wells' house being located close by the river bank, near the point at which one of the pontoons was laid down, I have no doubt that its roof sheltered some of Barksdale's Sharpshooters, who so forcibly resisted this work of the Engineer battalion.

When we joined Burnside, we found that our regiment, the Second Regular Cavalry, was acting as Provost-Guard, one company doing duty as a headquarters or body-guard.

This took me personally right into the big family at the Army of the Potomac headquarters. I was delighted at this prospect. I realized that I should henceforth be privileged to enjoy riding a good horse in the cavalcade that always dashed along in the wake of headquarters. In addition to this, I should personally have the opportunity to rub against the headquarters men, which would also give me the facilities for knowing pretty nearly what was going on in advance of the other boys. There were other agreeable advantages in being at headquarters, as any old soldier who is not cranky with envy will readily admit.

One of these, which I appreciated very much indeed, was that, after I became a fancy Orderly, and stood around with clean clothes on, and wore white gloves, I enjoyed also the very best of rations.

I became familiar with the Surgeon's Hospital Steward, who happened to be from my native city, so we messed together. It therefore became one of the privileges at headquarters, especially with the Hospital Steward, to draw rations from the hospital stores, which was an immense thing while at the front. I don't mean the sick rations of rice, soup, etc., but the good, nourishing things that are always reserved for the poor sick fellows. We got plenty of tea and rice, to be sure--so much, indeed, that I have soured on it ever since, and never take tea except when I am so sick that I can't bear the smell of coffee. As for rice, I am fond of it. As the Colonel said, "I like rice very much indeed, if it is properly cooked--that is, about a quart of cream and milk, a pound of butter, and some eggs and sugar and nutmeg and all the other things, nicely stirred up and baked--and, oh, yes, I forgot--about a half teaspoonful of rice may be added."

The Steward's name was Fulton--Johnny Fulton--formerly of Fahnestock's great drug house in Pittsburgh.

It became the duty of the Surgeons to inspect the boxes before they would admit their contents into the hospitals, because, you know, they often contained articles of food prepared and sent by kind friends at home that might have been as fatal to the sick soldiers, if they had been allowed to eat them, as would have been the Rebel bullets. For instance, all sweet cakes, raisins, nuts, apples and other fruits were sure death for those troubled with the great army epidemic--dysentery. Pickles, as well as the innumerable sorts of canned stuffs, became confiscated, as too dangerous to let pass, so that we had to eat them up in self-defense.

There was scarcely ever a box opened that did not contain a bottle of something contraband--some old whisky. These the Surgeons usually took care of.

I know that some of the boys even now will be ready to swear at the headquarters' "dog-robber." I've been called that so often, and become so accustomed to it, and "loblolly boy," that it had no effect. We went straight along, having as good a time as we could, wore the best clothes and rode fast horses, and when we were not doing anything else on Sundays, we would be out somewhere horse-racing.

There were, of course, some disagreeable things about headquarters too, and we of the Regulars had a standing fight with a lot of fancy boys who came down from Philadelphia that year. They were Rush's Lancers. As some of the Western soldiers have never seen this sort of a soldier, I shall describe him as a Zoo-zoo on a horse--that is, he wore a fancy Zouave uniform of many colors, and carried a pole about fifteen or twenty feet long in a socket in his stirrup. On the end of the pole was a sharp spear or lance, and a few inches from the end of the lance a little red silk flag fluttered. They were an awfully nice-looking set of fellows on parade. A thousand of them made about as dashing a show as can be imagined when galloping along in line or column.

It was expected that these long poles, with the sharp spears on the ends, would be just the thing to charge on an enemy.

I have often heard the owners explain just how they were going to do it when they should get a chance at the enemy. The custom or style had been imported from Europe, but somehow it didn't take well in the Army of the Potomac. The boys called them "turkey-drivers," probably because of the red patch on the end of the pole.

For a time they were at headquarters as a brilliant, fancy-looking attachment to the Staff; but every time we would go out with the "turkey-drivers" the "doboys," or infantry, would yell and gobble at them in such a ridiculous way that they had to be suppressed. I have heard as many as 10,000 men in the camps in the woods gobble at the "turkey-drivers," as if it were droves of wild turkeys, every time the lancers would ride along.

We of the Regular Cavalry at headquarters were, of course, pleased to witness the frequent discomfiture of the "turkey-drivers," probably because we were a little bit jealous of them, and feared, that their bright, dashing appearance might give them a preference over us as the headquarters' favorites.

Pretty soon they, like the Zouaves, changed their uniform to the old blue blouse, and threw away their long sticks for the noisy saber.

Although we had some fun among ourselves at headquarters, yet about that time--Christmas and January, 1862-63--were the dark days of the war. Seemingly, everything had gone wrong with the Army of the Potomac. Burnside had left some of the best blood of the long-suffering old army on the frozen ground over the river; the hospitals were filled with the sick and wounded, who could not safely be transported North; and, to my intense disgust, it seemed to me that I never rode out to any place, or made a visit to my friends in other regiments, that I did not run into some of those professional embalmers or packers, who would be engaged at one of their ugly jobs. The weather was cold, and these men went about their work as indifferently as we often see the dead beef and hogs handled in market!

One of the saddest duties to which we at headquarters were subjected, at times, was the piloting of visitors, who came down from Washington with passes and reported first at headquarters, to the regimental or brigade hospitals, in which their wounded or sick were to be found. Generally the visitor would be an old father, perhaps a farmer, sent by the mother to take home a sick or may be a dead son.

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