Chapter XXIX…

Chapter XXIX

LIFE AT HEADQUARTERS ARMY OF POTOMAC--SOME STARTLING REVELATIONS AS TO THE "TRUE INWARDNESS," NOT TO SAY CUSSEDNESS, OF OUR HIGH UNION OFFICIALS--INTERESTING DESCRIPTIONS OF FAMILY LIFE AT HEADQUARTERS--"SIGNALS"--CIPHERS--AGAIN VOLUNTEERING FOR SECRET SERVICE INSIDE THE REBEL ARMY--A REMARKABLE STATEMENT ABOUT BURNSIDE AND HOOKER--INTRODUCTION TO GENERAL MEADE--A NIGHT AT RAPPAHANNOCK INTERVIEWING REBEL PICKETS.

We were encamped on the side of the hill on the top of which was the large mansion house then occupied by Burnside and Staff. My memory is not reliable as to names, but I think it was called the Phillips House; anyway, it was a fine, large house, with all the usual surroundings of a Virginia mansion of the days. There were negro quarters, smoke-house, ice-house, stables, etc. These were filled up with the innumerable crowd that are always about headquarters. Our command was in camp in Sibley tents on the hill-side or in the orchard, almost within call of the house. It was my daily habit, when not otherwise engaged (and I had the liberty of the camp), to loaf around the porch of this house. Some way there seemed to be a strange fascination in the general officer's appearance, and I took great delight in watching his every movement and in listening to the talk of the big officers on the Staff.

There was always something going on at headquarters. Either General Franklin, or the old, almost feeble-looking, but grand E. V. Sumner, or Couch, would be there as visitors, and before they would leave probably other corps commanders in the uniform of Major-Generals, with swords, and followed by their Staffs, would dash up to the fence, dismount, and strut in, with swords rattling on the frozen ground and reverberating in the big hallway.

I saw Burnside every day, and several times a day. Whatever may be the judgment as to his generalship, there can be but one opinion as to his handsome appearance and his courteous manner. I became a personal Orderly to the General, and bear my cheerful testimony that he was always courteous and kind, and most tenderhearted and thoughtful of the welfare of the boys in the ranks.

It was my privilege to have seen him frequently when alone during the dark, dreary days that followed his terrible disaster. I have often since thought that his mind became affected by his great trouble. He would do some of the queerest things; as, for instance, one evening he came out into the back part of the house, where I happened to be at the time, in company with a chum, there being no one else near. He, in his bare head, coolly walked up to us. We, of course, jumped to our feet, saluted and properly stood at attention, expecting that he would pass on, but, instead, he stopped, and, with a peculiar little laugh, said, in words that I do not now recollect, but, in effect, it was: "Tell them it's all right." Then, as if suddenly recovering consciousness, probably at our stupidity in staring at him, he turned abruptly away, saying, hurriedly: "Never mind, never mind."

My companion, being older and more experienced than I, probably felt it his duty to whisper to me, as he touched my arm: "Come; don't stare so. Don't you see the 'old man' is full?"

I believed at the time, and for a long time after, that my companion was right, but, in the light of subsequent events, and coupled with some other singular things that it was my privilege to witness in the few days that followed, I am reluctantly inclined to believe that General Burnside was crazed by his defeat, and that he had not recovered the possession of his faculties when he planned the "Mud Campaign."

But, to better explain my reasons for entertaining this view, I will explain that, a day or two after this singular occurrence, when I found an opportunity to see the General alone, I took occasion to boldly make a proposition to him. As I put the matter in writing at the time, at his request (for my own good, as he in such a kindly way suggested), it is probable that the paper may be among the records.

I wanted to go over the river very, very much--that goes without saying. As I knew Geno was in the house, the roof and one corner of which I could see, I made almost a daily pilgrimage to the Lacey House, and sat there on my horse by the hour, hoping and praying that it might be that she or some of the family would recognize me.

When I made bold to personally address General Burnside, I am afraid that I began in a rather nervous voice and manner to unfold my plan of going into General Lee's lines again. At first he looked at me a little incredulously, then, as he recognized me as being one of the telegraph and signal men about his headquarters, he said: "Why, my dear boy, I couldn't send you on such an errand as that."

But I persisted, and, to assure him further, I told him I had been there before, and wasn't afraid to go again.

"You surprise me," said the General, genially. "Come into my room and I'll talk it over a little."

I followed him into his room, where we found at least half a dozen officers already gathered; indeed, there was always a crowd of them around headquarters. While General Burnside greeted them cordially, I stood at attention, at a respectful distance, in one corner of the room, where I was wholly unobserved.

While waiting for the General to clear up the business with his callers--which, by the way, seemed to me a long, long while--I heard, among others, one little story that I do not think has ever been printed.

Some officers were quietly discussing the recent battle; indeed, this was a subject that would not down. It seemed as if the ghosts of the thousands of dead soldiers who were slaughtered before Marye's Heights and at the pontoons were haunting the memories of our Generals.

And, by the way, the boys who died doing their thankless duty at the pontoons are almost forgotten, though they are almost as numerous as those who charged up the heights. Well, one of the officers whom I heard talking on the subject that day was, to my mind then, quite an ordinary-looking man. He was a little bit stoop-shouldered; at least, his careless, loose dress gave him that appearance, while with his muddy boots and spectacles and generally unsoldierly bearing, he gave me the impression that he was a Brigade Surgeon. Another of the officers, speaking of the failure of the army, made some remark about the left not doing its share. At this the Surgeon jerked up his head and his eyes showed fire through his spectacles, as he said: "I want you to understand that my division on the left broke Jackson's line in our charge, and, if we had been sustained, the result would have been different."

There was a good deal more of this sort of talk, pro and con, to which I paid no attention at the time, because it seemed as if everybody that I heard speak was explaining something or finding fault with another, and it, of course, became tiresome. There was lots of this sort of thing around headquarters which we on the outside overheard.

One little circumstance indelibly impressed this one man's talk on my mind at the time. Holding up his battered, old, slouched hat, and sticking his bony finger through a bullet-hole, in the crown, he said, in a reply to a suggestion that "there was no enemy in front of him, as there was at Marye's Heights"--"I found it hot enough in my front."

After he left I asked who the doctor was. The man on duty at the door looked at me with disgust as he said: "That's no damned doctor, man; don't you know General Meade?"

That was my introduction to the future commander of the army. And I put it on paper here now, that Meade's Division, of the old Sixth Corps, made a charge, at Fredericksburg, on Jackson's 30,000 men (the best position of the Rebels, because higher and more precipitous than Marye's Heights) that equaled that of Pickett at Gettysburg, yet we never hear the survivors blow of it.

I had a much longer wait for my opportunity to talk with General Burnside alone on this business than the reader has in reading this story.

I might tell some secrets that I overheard that day, while lying about headquarters. My ears were always as wide open as the proverbial little pitcher's, and, besides, I had been in training so much under similar circumstances in the Rebel country that I could scarcely help picking up everything that dropped in my hearing or sight.

However, at last they were all gone, excepting the Adjutant-General and his clerk; these two were busily engaged with some papers, seated at a long dining-room table that had been drawn out for a desk. After General Burnside gave some directions about his correspondence to the War Department, he turned to me and, taking a chair in each hand, asked me to sit down, and in as courteous a manner as if I were a Major-General he began apologizing for the delay. He drew his chair right up in front of mine, looking me straight in the eye, as he said: "Now, my young friend, what is it that you propose?"

As briefly as I could put it I explained, what my plan was--to open telegraph communication from the town of Fredericksburg, inside the Rebel lines, direct with his headquarters telegraph operators. This at the first glance may seem to be a wild, visionary scheme, but that it was entirely feasible I soon satisfied General Burnside.

Those who were in the Army of the Potomac will remember the Signal Telegraph Corps. I do not mean the Military or Morse Corps, but the Signal Telegraph Corps. There were two distinct organizations doing practically the same character of work in the Army of the Potomac. As a natural consequence, these two army telegraph corps were in a state of active, bitter warfare against each other all the time. The Morse Telegraph Corps was a civilian or non-military affair under Mr. Eckert, who was located at the War Office. Through this fact, and the sinister influence of these jealous Washington telegraphers, they were successful in securing Mr. Stanton's hostility to the Army Signal Telegraph Corps.

Every old army man will remember the signal telegraph lines that were constructed, as if by magic, on the little ten-foot poles, which were stretched along the roads like miniature telegraphs, always taking the shortest cuts through the camps.

I presume that every Corps Headquarters was in immediate telegraphic connection with the General Headquarters, and that the little poles and gum-insulated wire extended to all the important outposts. This telegraph line was used in connection with the flag-and-torch system. For instance, from some elevated position on the outskirts of our lines, probably a tree-top or a distant hill, always overlooking the enemy's country (which was just over the river), would be located a signal station. Here would be found a signal officer and his squad of trained flag swingers. Those stations were equipped with the very best field-glasses and telescopes that were obtainable in this country and in Europe.

The telescope, being the larger glass, would always be found supported on a platform or tripod, and usually leveled so as to sweep the enemy's country. Each of these stations covered a designated field, equal in extent to five or ten miles. A number of these stations were arranged so that the entire front, as well as the rear, if possible, and both flanks of the enemy, were being minutely inspected every hour of the day, and any unusual movement of men or teams were at once noted and immediately reported to headquarters.

The telegraph lines were generally used while in permanent camps to convey these reports back from the front. But in case of their being disarranged or on the march, when telegraphs could not be operated, the flag-and-torch system was used.

Those who have seen these temporary wires will remember that they were apparently about the thickness of a lead-pencil, but an examination would show that a gum or rubber casing inclosed a very thin copper wire. For purpose of insulation the best quality of rubber was used, while the wire was of the purest copper. It was made in Europe to order, and, as it was expected that the wires would receive some pretty hard usage, great care was taken in its manipulation.

The wire, though as thick as a pencil, was as flexible as a piece of rope of the same thickness. It could be looped, tied and twisted into any sort of shape in the roughest, shortest manner, and be undone without damaging it. It will be understood without further explanation from me, that the purpose in having this army signal wire made in this way was to secure perfect insulation for the electric current. It was expected that, in certain emergencies, the wire could be rapidly reeled off the hose-carriage-looking vehicle that carried it on to the ground, even during a battle, and signal communication kept up through it even while it lay on the ground or in the water. A corps of men with wagons arranged to carry cords of their little circus-tent telegraph poles would run along after the reel, like a hook-and-ladder company, and were drilled to rapidly pick up the wire and suspend it overhead, where it was not liable to be injured by men or horses coming against it.

I didn't have to tell him all of this, because he already knew all about it. The telegraph and the wire were both in his sight continually. I merely said to him: "General, I will take some of that insulated wire, submerge it as a cable under the Rappahannock, and go over there myself and telegraph your headquarters every hour, if necessary, from inside the Rebel lines."

"Why, my boy, if you were to attempt to take that wire over there, the first use that would be made of it would be to make a rope to hang you."

"But I'm not going over there with a rope in my hands," I said. Then I fully explained to the General, first, that I could get into Fredericksburg in apparent safety, under pretense of being a Rebel, because I had actually been taken away from there in arrest and confined in Old Capitol Prison, by Mr. Stanton's orders, which fact was well-known by some friends in the town. At this the General's mouth opened in astonishment, and he probably began to think he was talking with a crazy man. But, after a long talk about my former experiences and my recent personal troubles with Mr. Stanton, which interested the General, especially the latter, seemed to renew his interest, and he apparently gave me his sympathy and encouragement. The poor old General was in great trouble with the War Office just then, and probably from this fact he was able to better appreciate my queer position. How very insignificant and trifling my affairs became, as compared with his own distressing, heart-breaking burden!

The General, with a deep sigh, as an expression of pain passed over his face that I shall never forget, said:

"My dear boy, I should like to avail myself of your offer, and will think it over; but," with hesitancy, as his brow wrinkled with something like a frown of distrust, "I want to say to you in the way of secret-service confidence, that the position and location of the Rebel forces has been incorrectly reported to me by the War Department Secret Service officials."

In this connection I can only explain this voluntary observation by the well-known fact that, undoubtedly, Burnside was indirectly obliged by public sentiment, expressed through Halleck and Stanton, and perhaps the President, to make his unfortunate movement over the river, in the face of an enemy intrenched on the almost-impregnable heights, against his better military judgment.

Perhaps the War Department had information of the Rebel Army that would seem to have justified the attempt. I don't pretend to know anything more about it than I have gathered from General Burnside in the way I have indicated.

In after years, when General Burnside became a Senator from Rhode Island, I was employed in the Senate as telegraph operator for the Associated Press. Major Ben. Perley Poore, the correspondent, learning from me that I had served with the General, incidentally mentioned the fact to him one day, and, in less time than I take to write it, the dear old General was in my office shaking me heartily by the hand. I met him in a business way frequently during his term, but he never talked on the subject of the war to me, except in a general, pleasant way.

I further explained, to the apparent satisfaction of the General, that I should submerge the wire in the river, at night, at a certain point, and not attempt to haul it out on the Rebel shore, except under certain contingencies, that were likely to occur, and which I could make use of from the other shore. I had studied the subject carefully; indeed, from my frequent visits to the river bank, I had evolved from my fertile brain the plan to kill two birds with one stone; i. e., to get to see Geno, at the risk of my neck, and while there, under the protection of her father and friends, who would undoubtedly vouch for me as a good Rebel, I should be able to go about unmolested, and learn the position and, perhaps, the plans of the Rebel Army, and then trust to a fortunate combination of circumstances to go and fish up my submerged wire and tap my important news to headquarters. Any telegrapher will see that this could easily have been done by the use of the little instrument, that could be concealed between the empty lids of a big watch-case. The current, or battery, was to be supplied from the other end, and all that I had to do to secure attention, or notify the operators at Burnside's headquarters that somebody was at the other end of their wire, was to merely lift the exposed end off the ground or out of the water. I can't explain all this, but that is the fact easily substantiated. The only difficulty about the plan was in getting hold of this end of the wire without detection. This was a very serious trouble; but, as I have said, I had carefully studied the thing out, and thought it over night and day.

I will admit, for the sake of argument, that my thoughts and plans were stimulated by the hope of getting over to see Geno. In my frequent rides along the river banks in search of a good landing for my cable, I had selected a point on the other side right below the piers of the burnt railroad bridge. Those who have been there will remember an old mill that was located right on the bank, the water-wheel of which seemed to be almost on the edge of the water. From this wheel was a deep ditch, or waste-way, for the escape of the surplus water into the river. Back of the wheel there was, of course, the mill-race, which was quite deep and, like a canal, sluggish. This race, as it is called, extended in a winding way up into an unfrequented part of the town.

Now, my scheme was to watch a favorable opportunity from the Union side, and, with the connivance of our own officers, the first dark night I proposed taking a coil of that wire, and, under the pretense of escaping over the river in a boat, I should, when near the Rebel shore, drop the coil with its anchor, and make a certain signal, at which our pickets were to fire their guns as if they had discovered me and were in hot pursuit.

Of course the Rebel pickets would be expected to be on the alert all the time, and, to prevent detection, I proposed suspending the coil of wire in the water from the start, attached to a rope, which I could quickly let go, and the coil and anchor would quietly drop out of sight to the bottom.

Once on the other side, I would have to run the risk of being recognized by the Rebel officers, to whom I should undoubtedly be taken at once. I hoped that by this time I had been forgotten by my old Rebel friends. Once safely through this gauntlet I should appeal to Captain Wells for recognition and release as a Rebel. There would be no trouble about that, you know.

Then, after looking the ground over, I could, at my leisure, go fishing for my coil of wire, and extend it up the mill-race either into the deserted old mill or beyond, out of the range of the pickets, and astonish the boys at Burnside's headquarters by signaling to them from the other shore. There was nothing about this plan impracticable, and General Burnside was so favorably impressed with my scheme that he heard me through with an apparently deep interest, and even suggested some changes in my project.

It did not occur to me at the time, though I learned subsequently, that one of the reasons which induced General Burnside to delay the consideration of my proposition was (very properly) to enable him to make some inquiries of my immediate officers about my past experience and supposed fitness for secret service among the Rebels. I was quietly informed of this by a friend at court.

The result of this investigation must have been satisfactory to the General. He sent after me one evening, so late that the messenger had considerable difficulty in finding me, because I was wrapped up over head and ears in my army blanket for a nightgown, so sound asleep that I did not hear my name called.

As all of us were lying around loose in that shape, looking like mummies of the same age, he took the very great risk of resuscitating the wrong one, when the Orderly gave notice that "The General is waiting for that Telegraft Signal fellow to report."

Everybody within hearing at once took a part in the search, and I was rooted out of my snug corner by the order to "Git out of here damned sudden; you're wanted at headquarters." This sort of a summons aroused the curiosity of every old soldier that happened to be around, and that's saying a good deal.

It's only those who have lived among the old soldiers (I mean those regular chaps who have been in the service twenty or thirty years) that can understand fully what is meant by exciting their curiosity with an order for a comrade to report to headquarters.

They looked upon me with various expressions of pity, contempt, envy and wonder. The general impression was that I was getting into some kind of trouble, and one comrade sympathetically whispered words of cheer and comfort; another bade me "Good-by," etc.

Being only an enlisted man, I was quartered with the "non-coms" around headquarters, my immediate chum being the Hospital Steward.

As soon as I was wide enough awake to realize the situation and understand the summons, I knew well enough what it meant, but feigned wonder and surprise, and, hastily dressing myself, rushed through the dark yard to the house before any one could question me.

There were the usual sentries around headquarters, but my man got through them quickly, and we entered the house through the big hallway. There was but one light burning there, as every one of the numerous Staff had gone off to sleep. The Orderly gently knocked at the door as if he were afraid some one might hear. A quiet voice said, "Come"; the Orderly opened the door, put on his "Regular" face, jerked himself in sideways, stiffened up, saluted, and reported that he had "fetched the man he was ordered to."

"All right; 'fetch' him a little more, Sergeant, till I see him," were the exact words the General uttered in reply, in his pleasant way. Without waiting for any further introduction from my escort, I brushed my bangs down, wiped off my chin, and stepped inside of the door, saluting the General according to the regulations. The General dismissed the Orderly with a pleasant "Ah, here he is; that will do Orderly." Turning to me, with the pen he pointed to a chair, saying: "I wanted to see you, and it seems as if the only opportunity I have is after everybody else has left me. Take a seat till I finish this note."

After expressing my readiness to wait upon him at any hour, I sat down as directed, and for the time being I was alone with the Commander-in-Chief of the Army of the Potomac.

If I were permitted to live a thousand years, that lapse of time would not efface from my memory the impressions that this singular midnight interview with General Burnside has left upon my mind.

Previous to my reporting, the General had probably been engaged with his private correspondence, and was at that moment very intent in an awkward effort at steering his pen over a sheet of paper. The General, like all other great soldiers, was a poor penman. It made me nervous watching him scratch over the paper, so that I felt like volunteering my services as an amanuensis to help him out of his labor, though I am a poor penman myself--which, by the way, is the only claim that I have for comparison with great men.

Almost everybody is familiar with the broad, honest, generous face of Burnside, with his English side-whiskers--"Burnsides"; but, like most pictures, it fails entirely to show him with his face lighted up by his happy, encouraging smile.

Though there were upward of a hundred thousand soldiers sleeping on that cold, inhospitable ground in this darkness, all was as quiet in the Army of the Potomac along the Rappahannock at that hour as if it were a great national cemetery containing a hundred thousand quiet graves. As I sat there and watched the General's features as he continued to write, the thought occurred to my mind that this one man could, by a word, call into active life every one of those around, not only on this, but on the other side of the river.

Right over the little Rappahannock River, on every one of the hills that were in the background, we knew well enough was another sleeping army; but their dreary winter camps were enlivened somewhat by their hundreds of cheerful camp-fires, the light from which seemed to flicker in our faces a happy sort of defiance at our wretched darkness. All along the river front, almost within gunshot of our headquarters, was stretched a line of camp-fires at such regular intervals that the scene resembled the lights of lamps on a long, winding street. They were allowed camp-fires on their picket-lines. We were prohibited from lighting a match at the front.

After the General had finished his task of writing and sealing the note, he rose from his chair, threw up both arms, as if to stretch himself out of a cramp, as he walked toward me, saying, abruptly: "It seems to me, young man, that you are in a position that will enable you to do us great service."

When I made a move to get on my feet to assume the soldier's first position of attention, the General motioned me back into my chair, with a command to: "Sit still; I want to stretch my legs a little while I talk this matter over," and he halted in front of me as he put the question: "Do you think you can get to the other side in safety to yourself?"

I assured him that I had no doubt of that whatever, and went on to explain that my recent relations with the people there would serve to protect me, but that I must not go in the uniform of a Federal soldier.

"Are you sure that your friends over there have not heard of your being in the army?"

I thought not--indeed, I was sure they had not--as some of my best friends in the North were not aware of the step, because I had not joined with any of the State troops, but had united with the Regulars, where I had become lost, as it were, among strangers.

During this examination I had assumed that, as a matter of course, my proposition to submerge the cable was in the General's mind. I had spent some time and considerable labor in the interval in carefully preparing a section of the soft rubber or insulated wire for this use. Sufficient length had been carefully selected and tested with the electrical batteries, and then I had put the whole Quartermaster's Department in a stew by a requisition, approved by headquarters, for some linseed oil, which was something that was not in the regulation list. I wanted to use the oil as additional coating to the rubber, as a better protection in the water. After much red-tape business, I got some oil, and put my coil of selected wire into the barrel for a good soaking.

When I began to tell the General about this additional security, he interrupted me: "Oh, never mind about that now. I fully appreciate your ingenuity, and believe that some such plan might become practicable hereafter, but (with an impressiveness that I shall never forget) we know pretty well the extent and disposition of the enemy's forces over there."

With a deep sigh he hesitated a moment, as if recalling his recent battle, that had so terribly demonstrated this fact.

"The Government was deceived to a great extent by Scouts; what I now desire is to deceive the Rebels."

I didn't "catch on," which the General probably discovered by his intent look into my eye.

"We must deceive them the next time; and if you are willing to take the risk on yourself of going into their lines, you can no doubt aid us very much better than by taking the wire along with you."

I expressed so decided a willingness to do anything, that the General smilingly said: "I see that you will do; and, as you have explained, it will be no great risk to you personally, I am satisfied to have you make the attempt." After a few more words of friendly caution, the General said, finally: "It will be better that you should make the crossing either above or below, and come up into the city. A few signals may be arranged beforehand with some of the Signal officers, which you can, no doubt, perfect yourself better than I."

I assured him that this could be easily done, and with a word or two more of caution and a suggestion to arrange my signals, and when I was ready to go to report to him, the General bade me "Good-night."

I left General Burnside's office that night without any very clear understanding of what he wanted me to do. I was only sure that I was expected to go over into the town for a purpose which he had not yet explained. This was sufficient for me. I went off in the dark to find my blanket, my head swimming with delight at the prospect of personally serving the General of the Army and the Government in a way that would at once secure advancement for me; but, best of all, I should at the same time be able to see Geno; and perhaps the fortune of war would be so altered by another move as to enable me to escort her and the Wells family away from the ill-fated old town.

But I shall leave the romantic portion--the love story--out of this narrative of fact. Perhaps some person better able than myself may in the future weave a romance from these plain statements of facts that I have somewhat reluctantly been putting down from time to time, in the midst of the bustle and confusion of my later-day work of a newspaper correspondent at Washington, yet scouting around among Rebels for news.

I found my blanket undisturbed during my absence. It had served as a sort of claim to that part of the floor in the large room over which were scattered a half-dozen sleeping men. One of the boys was wide enough awake to begin questioning me in regard to the nature of my business with the "old man"--the General was always the "old man," you know. In anticipation of this, and remembering a word of caution from the General, I had fixed up in my own mind a plan to put them on the wrong track. I explained--very confidentially, of course, knowing very well that it would get out the better and be believed if in that form--that I was to be questioned about the material necessary to build a telegraph line up to Washington on our side of the river.

It will be remembered that there was no direct communication with Washington by land from the army at Fredericksburg. Ostensibly, the Union forces occupied that portion of the territory, but, practically, the Rebel residenters, bushwhackers and guerrillas, assisted by Stuart's cavalry, infested the entire region between Alexandria or Manassas and Fredericksburg. Occasionally our cavalry were up in that region about some of the upper fords of the Rappahannock, but it was to all intents and purposes the enemy's country.

It was expected that I would convey some false or misleading information as coming from our forces to the Rebel officers. In a word, I was to become a decoy-duck.

While lying there all alone thinking this over carefully, and the exuberance of my feelings over a personal and pleasant interview with the General had subsided, I began to realize the dangerous position in which I might be placed.

The character of the decoy messages, and the manner of conveying them, the General had discreetly kept from me until the time for action. I was satisfied that I could easily get through to the Rebel headquarters and perhaps see General Lee personally. My "sympathizer"--Old Capitol story--would, no doubt, take well, especially in Fredericksburg.

The first danger that I should encounter would be a chance recognition of my "former services," but this was only equal to about one in a thousand. The only matter that I feared at all was going into the Rebel headquarters as the bearer of any important papers; they might, notwithstanding my friends in Fredericksburg, become suspicious and, perhaps, be induced to keep a watch over me as a sort of hostage for their fulfillment. If the intelligence I had taken to them had misled and caused disaster to their army, I would have to suffer.

The only way to circumvent this was to get out of the way before it was too late. Geno was over on that side, and the prospect of once more seeing her settled in my young impulsive heart the question. I determined that I would go, and go, too, as soon as possible; and with this thought fixed in my mind, I at last went off into a sound sleep, to dream of the happy hour when I should again take her hand in mine and tell her of the difficulties and the dangers I had met and so persistently overcome, that I might once more enjoy the happiness of being near her.

All the different headquarters were in direct communication with each other and the General Headquarters, as well as the Signal Station, from their points of observation, by means of this wire signal telegraph, which I have described.

This field telegraph was operated on the "induction" principle, which is the basis of the telephone patent. In the field telegraph, instead of vibrations, the induced current causes the deflection of a sensitive needle, which noisily points to letters of the alphabet on a dial synchronously with the transmitting apparatus.

Compared with the Morse system, it was a little tedious, and, at times, as uncertain as a telephone. It had the advantage, however, of simplicity. We called these "coffee-mill telegraphs." Since the war the "coffee-mill," or English system, has been greatly improved--the same principle operating the Atlantic cables. Instead of a needle revolving on the face of a dial, it is made by a wave of electricity, to simply dip or deflect, as desired, either to the right or the left of a zero point.

In this way the two simplest of all known characters are formed; i. e., the "dot" and the "dash" of the American Morse system.

This principle has an important bearing, not only in the action of this narrative, but it is the basis of a system of signals first applied to use in war by myself, as developing the practicability of signaling from even the inside of an enemy's line into headquarters of his opponent. Since our war developed its uses, it has been adopted by nearly all the Governments of the earth.

It was designed by myself that, instead of being burdened by the attempt to lay a cable under the water and concealed in the earth, through which it was hoped to signal, that I should go over to Fredericksburg and, once safely in Geno's home, I could, by visual signals, communicate directly with an accomplished signal officer to be located at the Lacey House.

This was entirely practicable. Captain Wells' house was barely discernable from the Lacey House. I was to take a position at a certain window in the Wells' House and, when alone, signal directly over the water and through the air to a window in the Lacey House, by the simple use of this dot and dash system.

Those who have seen the signal-flags and torches will remember that there were but two simple motions, one to the left and the other to the right of a perpendicular--the stroke down, or in front, merely signifies a stop--the dot (or No. 2) is represented by a quick motion to the right; a dash (or No. 1) by a motion to the left of a sender.

At the end of each word, abbreviation, conventional or prearranged signal, a "front" motion is made.

I put in the cold days and long nights in studying up signals and in arranging with my "pard" for their exchange. He entered heartily into the scheme, believing, as we all did, that I, of all others, was just the person to undertake the business, because I would be recognized as a Rebel in that town.

From an up-stairs window of the Lacey House we discovered that two windows of Captain Wells' house were plainly visible. There was also a single "dormer" window in the roof, which the bombardment had seriously damaged.

These up-stairs windows were visible over the top of another house that stood between it and the river.

There was no other point on our side of the river from which signals could be quietly made that would not attract the attention of the watchful Rebels. Even from an obscure window of the Lacey House we feared it would be risky to attempt any demonstration in the way of signals. It was on this account settled upon that very few, if any, signals should be made to me.

There would be only some common recognition of my presence. We arranged that when one shutter of the Lacey House window was open it would signify to me in the Rebel lines that my man had his telescope leveled at my window, of which I was to open one shutter to signify my presence in that room.

Now, the telescopes used in the United States Signal Service were of the very best character. It will seem to many to be an exaggerated statement when I assert that I have distinctly and clearly read flag-signals a distance of twenty-five miles, and these at the rate of fifteen to twenty words a minute, too. At night torch-signals may be distinctly read by this method. It is only necessary that the exact point or bearings of the distant signal station be known. For this purpose a first-class pocket compass was furnished each signal officer.

In this case it was not necessary to see the compass to find the window, but we located with the telescope and compass certain other points miles to the rear of Marye's Heights and the Rebel Army, which I was to find in case the window was not available.

The window was altogether the best point, provided I could get use of it, because I could sit back in the shadow, and out of view of any person outside, and be seen by the use of the telescope, especially at night.

With my hand, or with a wand or a fan, I was supposed to seat myself in that room, my feet cocked up on a window-sill, smoking a cigar and nonchalantly signal or spell out this one-two alphabet by the waves of a fan. The objection to that was that it was wintertime, and fans were not necessary, but it was generally understood that I was to use anything that happened to suit best, and to change as often as possible--merely to show a right and left motion was all that was necessary.

Circumstances may arise in the future in which some such conditions may be availed of, as they were in our war on more than one occasion. Exactly what I was to telegraph back did not occur to me. In fact General Burnside did not seem to attach very much importance to this part of the plan, which was more attractive to my own and my chum's mind than his decoy matter.

It was my intention to travel at will, through my Rebel friends in the town, and, if possible, get into the lines even to General Lee's headquarters, and hear their telegraph instruments, and if anything important was learned I should at once "open my half-shutter" and watch for the open half-shutter in the Lacey House. When they were ready to "receive" both shutters were to be opened, and as long as both remained opened they were "getting me down" in black and white. In case of the loss of a signal or a word, an attempt would be made to close one shutter, when I would see that I was to stop until signaled to "go ahead" by the opening of both shutters again.

It is not to be understood that it was expected of me to "spell out," by this motion system, every word that I might want to communicate over the river. There is scarcely a word in general use that was not abbreviated by the phonetic spelling and pronunciation, so that every message became a blind cipher, excepting to those who understood the phonetic system. For instance, the long word "communicate," which I have just used here, is reduced to two simple letters, as follows:

Communicate km. Communication kmn. Communicating kmg. Communicated kmd.

The suffixes ing, ed, tion and ty to this word, and wherever they occur, were shortened by the use of the letters g, d, n, and y, respectively. I can "communicate" with a flag in shorthand as rapidly and as correctly at a distance of twenty miles as our official reporters will at twenty feet, and if the weather does not permit the use of flags, a battery of guns can be made to "km" as far as they can be heard, in a storm or in the dark.

For my own especial purpose, we had arranged a few additional signals by which I was to quickly "km" with headquarters. For instance, the important information that I had been successful in spreading the false information was to be known by a continuous repetition of the signals "sk, sk, sk," signifying successful.

I felt that I could with perfect safety to myself stand on the bank of the river, and, while apparently using my handkerchief in an ordinary way, make these two simple signs so that it would be readily understood. If I signaled re-rd, it meant General Lee was in Richmond; or Lt. was not Lieutenant, as would be supposed by any signal officer, but meant Longstreet; while a simple X was for Stonewall Jackson. Enh was "enough."

Before everything was in readiness, I was looking for an opportunity to see General Burnside and tell him of the character of our arrangements. I was disappointed in not seeing him for a couple of days; my recollection is that he was in Washington. Any way, I felt at the time that he was not as much interested in the matter as I had supposed he would be.

Finally, I succeeded in seeing the General, but not alone; indeed, he was seldom, if ever, without some sort of company. When he stopped his conversation long enough to hear me, he simply said, in his polite, kindly way: "Well, you come in and see me again, won't you?"

Of course that settled it for that interview, and I had to go off disappointed. I watched for the next opportunity, and when I sent a little note to his room to say that I was ready, he surprised me by sending out to see me one of his Staff officers, who, holding my note in his open hand, came up to me and began to explain that the General had directed him to see me, etc.

This officer said, very kindly: "The General has informed me of your proposed service, and has directed me to afford you every facility possible. What can I do for you? He is very much occupied just now."

That was very kind, but it was not exactly satisfactory, as I wanted to talk to the General; however, I told this officer I wanted to cross the river below the town, under the guise of a deserter, and, once over, to act as I should find best. He heard of my proposed signaling with amazement, and after explaining his grave doubts about the safety of such an undertaking, he told me, with a significant confidence for such a short acquaintance: "The army is to move in a few days right over into the town precisely as we did before. The General, you know, is determined to make a success of his former plan, but he especially desires that the Rebels should be led to believe that he proposed to cross below. Therefore, he directed me to say that the only directions he had were that the enemy should be made to believe this, and directed me to confer with you as to the best method of accomplishing this result."

He went on further to detail a plan of crossing the army at a place called Hoop-pole Ferry, and said they would make a demonstration in that direction, but they would cross into the town again.

It never once occurred to my innocent heart that this smooth-talking Yankee officer was lying to me. They did not intend to cross at the town, and he knew it. At this very time General Burnside was planning his campaign to cross above the town some distance, at Banks or United States Fords, and he was only prevented from doing so by the "stick-in-the-mud."

In stating so positively that he intended to redeem the army and "lead his own Ninth Corps" up that hill, right through town as before, he purposely and, perhaps, wisely deceived me, and I was in turn to further deceive, or attempt to deceive the Rebels by making them think he was to cross twenty miles below.

After I had gotten under my blanket, the night following the interview with General Burnside's Staff-officer, I instinctively felt it was my last peaceful sleep under the protection of the old flag.

It was then, when alone with myself, that I calmly and dispassionately thought over the entire matter.

I will admit that I was a little bit cowardly when the time neared for working this case in the dark. I am not afraid, however, to put myself down here in cold type as being afraid of the Rebels. I may be permitted to say, that no one soldier, in all that army, carried a greater risk than myself in being there.

It will be understood the prime motive with me was a longing desire to see Geno. For her dear sake I was willing to risk my life, knowing, if I were successful, I should win promotion and Geno at the same time.

I recalled, with feelings of intense gratification, the Staff-officer's words: "We shall cross into the town again as we did before."

It occurred to my dull comprehension that if this were to be so what would be the use in my taking any risk on myself to find Geno, by going over into the hands of the enemy, in advance of the army.

I reasoned very clearly, the more I thought over it, that it would be decidedly safer, and in every way better to answer my purpose, to ride a horse over the pontoons under the protection of our cannon than to go over alone only a day or two in advance.

General Burnside's Staff-officer, in thus lying to me about the crossing, unintentionally over-reached himself. But I had said to the General that I would go, and all the preparations had been made to signal. I could not, therefore, decently back down on my own proposal.

I was a coward both ways--afraid to go and afraid not to go.

I concluded, by way of compromise, to do as a great many of our Generals have done, who were also afraid sometimes--I would procrastinate, in hopes the army would move before I did--I would also make a "demonstration" below town, but hope to get into town by the convenient method of the pontoons.

The scene of this adventure is, of course, along the Rappahannock, the season that of the dreadful winter of 1862-3, on Stafford Heights, once the farm of Mrs. Washington, the mother of the Father of his Country.

The scenery was changing, like that on the stage, from the "snowy shroud that winter weaves around the dying year" to the more disagreeable mud that Virginia alone can supply, and that so effectively tied up everything that does not go on wings. In addition to the innumerable enemies in the front, in the rear, and on the flanks, that the old Army of the Potomac had to contend with, one of the most obstinate was the mud.

It was arranged that I should be quietly furnished with the facilities to enable me to "desert" over the river. All these arrangements were practically in my own hands. Everything that I desired was cheerfully afforded me.

During two of the coldest, most disagreeable days and nights of that memorable winter, I bivouacked with our cavalry outposts, located on the river bank some distance below the town.

I was there for the purpose of watching a favorable opportunity to desert to the other side.

That I did not go, was not to be charged to a lack of facilities. I was not in a hurry; in fact, I was hoping against hope that the whole army would move. I, at last, concluded that I should have to make a demonstration to satisfy my friends, with whom I had talked it over.

The weather was so terribly cold and rough along that river bottom that, after a few days' experience, I felt it would be a relief to get over the river, alongside of the snug camp-fires of the Rebels, which seemed to beckon me over, as an ignis fatuus. The Confederates were allowed camp-fires all along their picket-lines. We were not even permitted to light a match.

The Rappahannock, at the point patrolled by our cavalry, was narrow and deep, the banks on either side being abrupt and covered in most places by a close undergrowth of willow. Directly opposite, and within speaking distance, were the Rebel pickets. Their outpost camp-fires were in a little grove of saplings, so close to the bank that, from our side, we could see their every movement at night by the light of their fires, and could count the number of men laying about on the ground. We imagined that we could hear their snores, so close were they. It seemed as if we were on guard over them.

When their fires would burn low, one of the number would crawl from under his blanket, stir up the embers, put on some more wood, and again lie down to sleep in perfect security. There was no firing on picket-lines at that time.

During the daytime there would frequently be a general exchange of agreeable, but sometimes sharp, words between the pickets.

On our side there was a general order prohibiting this communication, but, when the officers were not around, we talked more freely with the Rebels than we would have dared with the sentry on the beat adjoining our own.

It was only necessary to call "Johnny!" to get a quick "Hello," or if Johnny called first it was "Hello, Yank."

But little, if any, reliable information passes through the lines in this way. The pickets out on the line, as a rule, know less about their own army than anyone else. Of course a stranger, or even a soldier unknown to the officers, is not permitted on the line.

What I am relating is an actual experience from real life in the picket lines.

These incidents resulted in bringing about some remarkable developments that, in the days and months and years that followed, produced a sadly sweet influence on the lives, not only of myself, but upon that of some famous Confederate officers and the family of Captain Wells; but to tell the story of the "other side," at this time, is to be left for a future occasion. This is to be a straight narrative of one experience.

Picture to yourselves a stormy, snowy night. The men of the relief to which I had been temporarily attached, who were to be called, could not be found, because the snow had actually covered them out of sight.

Soldiers who lay down on the ground to sleep during a snow storm wrap themselves entirely with the blankets, which the snow soon covers. Strange as it may seem, we slept more comfortably and warmly when thus shrouded under the snow.

The night I had selected to cross to the enemy was of this kind. In the early part, I had slept sweetly under this white blanket of snow, and, when called up to take my position, I felt loth to stir, with such first thoughts, perhaps, as a criminal who is awakened from sound sleep on the morning of his execution.

At that time, in addition to two heavy flannel shirts and drawers, we usually wore two complete suits of fatigue uniform, one right over the other. The boots were large, and came high. Over the leather we learned, in very cold weather, to draw an old woolen sock. If the reader has never tried this, he will be surprised to see how much warmth even an additional cotton sock adds when drawn over the outside of a boot. It is equal to three pairs inside.

We also discovered that the placing of an old newspaper between blankets increased their warmth doubly without adding to the weight.

It will be seen from this description, or attempt at one, that a Union cavalryman on picket on a winter night, on the Rappahannock, resembled, as he sat on his horse, something that has not yet been pictured in any war-book that I have ever seen! Of course, under all this bundle of blankets and ponchos he carried across his knee his carbine, or perhaps it was "slung."

As a general thing, if the night was very cold, the poor picket allowed his heavily-loaded feet to hang out of the stirrups, because it assisted the circulation and kept the feet warmer than when resting in the stirrup.

Determined that I should settle the question that night, at a favorable opportunity I called, in a voice that I fear was somewhat tremulous, "Hello, Johnny!"

Not getting any reply, I waited a few moments, watching intently every movement around the fire in the little grove. Presently one tall fellow, with whiskers all over his face, whom I took to be an officer, called gruffly to one of the sleeping Rebels, as if directing his attention to the picket-line. There were a few words or growls in a sleepy tone, and all became quiet. Fearing that they would all go off to sleep again, I called out loudly, "Come down to the river a minute."

At this the officer got up, stared into the darkness over his fire as if the voice had come from a ghost in the tree-tops. Again I called: "Come over a minute; I want to give you some dry coffee."

This stirred up the officer, whose pleased smile I could see by the fire-light.

"Hello! is that you, Yank?" Then, urging the sleeper to get out, the two had some sharp words, which I didn't hear.

It was only a few moments before both strode away from the fire-light in the direction of the river. At the time I was so nervous that I thought it an hour's delay.

Our officer was conveniently absent at the time, and while I knew that I would not be molested, except as a feint, I still felt that for effect I must go quietly about this, and this feeling served to make me act the part nervously.

There was a flat-boat or raft tied on the other side. This little, square, coffin-shaped craft had been manufactured by some Georgia soldiers. The sides were straight up and down and the bottom flat. A good name for the thing is "a boy drowner"; that's what they call them on the river where I learned to swim. To navigate this concern, a rope had been stretched over the river and anchored at each side, the rope sinking under the water. That rope was there permanently, just in such shape as I had proposed to lay a cable. Our officers only knew in a general way of its existence from the fact that the little boat was drawn or ferried almost every night by means of it.

When the two Rebels that I had roused from sleep had gotten close enough and began to feel along the shore ice for the boat, which was always kept on their side, I excited them to greater exertion by saying in a whisper, intended to be confidential, but which was heard easily over the river: "I've got a canteen of commissary here I will sell or trade."

Whisky has its uses. It enters into almost every conspiracy in some shape or other; in this case it was only to be applied as a sort of taffy. The officer called back eagerly: "All right; we'll make some kind of a dicker."

The boat was scarcely safe for one and wouldn't carry double without kicking over. It was built on the theory that the one passenger would part his hair in the middle, and to get an exact balance, the "chaw" of tobacco could be shifted to that side of the jaw that required the weight. It would do well enough for a plaything in the summer time, but to risk a bath in the middle of a winter night was not to be so lightly considered.

The officer insisted on the soldier coming over. By way of persuasion I heard him tell him that if he should get a little wet, the commissary that Yank had would warm him up. That settled it.

He came over in less time than I had taken to tell about it, jumped through the bushes and stood before me on the hard-frozen ground.

Nearly all of the old soldiers of the Army of the Potomac have been a party to these little "exchange of courtesies" on the outposts, and will understand better than I can explain just how the thing was done. For those who have not seen the reality, I would suggest a picture. The scene is on the Rappahannock; the background shows the heights below Fredericksburg covered with snow. The characters in real life are the Rebel soldier and his boat. He stood by me wrapped in a dirty butternut blanket, in that style of drapery that only a Rebel soldier or an Apache Indian can adapt himself to.

I have already described my bundled-up appearance, topped off with a poncho. We were meeting at that lonely spot in the middle of a winter night, ostensibly to trade coffee and whisky for tobacco; but in fact it was, with me, a meeting for the purpose of hatching out a conspiracy as important in one sense, if successful, as was that of Benedict Arnold and Major Andre's meeting. I was there for a purpose, with the indirect knowledge and consent of the Commander-in-Chief of the United States Armies.

I preferred very much to talk with the officer; he would have the authority to grant me the privileges I wanted to negotiate for, before I should surrender my liberty.

The man in front of me was a middle-aged, unshaven, ugly-looking specimen of a Georgian or North Carolinian Tar-heel. All he knew was to do as his officer directed, and he was of a kind that would do that at any cost. Whisky was the best or quickest way to reach his confidence. The rebel and I "drank from the same canteen" on the picket-line. He did the most of the drinking, while I only pretended to take swigs of it.

The officer on the other side couldn't see what we were doing; he became uneasy and called out: "Don't fool 'round thar too long."

My rebel called back, "I'm a-comin' with some good stuff."

He went back to his boat, hauled out a lot of leaf-tobacco, and after the style of the Indians trading, laid it down, saying: "It's all I got, but there's plenty of it."

I was not making a tight bargain just then, and agreed to all his terms so readily that probably, under the influence of the commissary, he could scarcely find words to express his good opinion of me, etc.

I broached the subject uppermost in my mind by growling at our hard luck in having to stand out there in the cold. His reply to this put me off my pins entirely:

"Well, why don't you all go to your own home in your own country?"

I explained that we would like to do so, but being soldiers we had to stay here against our will.

I then mildly suggested that we felt like going over to their side, that we might have such comfortable fires, etc.

"A right smart of your men do come over."

"What do they do with them?"

"Oh, they are sent away down to the coast some place, where they are in no danger of getting caught by you all."

That was one important point learned; they would send me off South if I should go over as a deserter. I didn't intend to be sent away so far from Geno, and I decided mighty suddenly just then that I wouldn't go along back with him.

The Johnny started to return, when I asked him if he ever went up to the town. He had been there, but was seemingly as dumb and indifferent as an animal about everything but the whisky and coffee.

"I've got some friends up in town there that I'd like to send some word to. Can't you go up there and see them for me?"

"Why, yes, I'll do anything I can to oblige you; but I'll have to ask the Captain about that, you know."

Then I drew from my pocket a letter or note, sealed in an ordinary envelope, addressed to Captain Wells, and confidentially whispered as I looked around me, as if afraid some of our officers would see or hear me: "I've a sweetheart up there, and between you and me I would like to send her some word explaining why I am here. The fact is," I continued, as the fellow reached his hand and took my letter, "I only came into this Yankee army for a chance to get to see her, and if I thought I wouldn't be sent South I'd go over now."

The fellow was then so much softened by the whisky that he tugged at my hand to "Come right along; come on, old fellow." I only got away from him by proposing that he see his officer about it first, and if they could give me any assurance that I'd not be sent South I'd go over the next night I was on duty.

Again assuring him that the letter contained nothing that I should object to his officer seeing, he left me, ramming into his pocket the document containing the misleading information that General Burnside's Staff-officer had suggested that I personally convey. I had prepared the document myself, which was in the form of a friendly letter to Captain Wells and family, detailing my experience in the Old Capitol Prison, and explaining that I had joined the army as the only means to get back there; then, as if it were an ordinary bit of news, I added the decoy information to the body of the note in these words:

"I have heard from my brother, who you know is a telegraph operator at the War Department, that General Burnside has been ordered to cross the river again; but next time it is to be away down the river at Hoop-pole Ferry, so that I hope to soon be with you all once more, etc."

When the Rebel got back and had talked a while, and had probably given the Captain a swig at the commissary, the Captain called back to me to say, "Thank you, old fellow; much obliged to you, sir." Then, in an undertone, "Are you all alone?"

I signified that I was, when he said: "I know those ladies very well, and will see them myself to-morrow."

What could have been better for my purpose? It will be remembered there were two older sisters, Miss Sue and Miss Mamie. I flattered myself with the reflection that Geno was then too young for company--especially Rebel company, or any other kind but me.

In this manner I was in every way as successful in accomplishing General Burnside's purpose as if I had gone over personally; perhaps more so, as there would be no doubt in the minds of the Wells family that I was sincere in these statements, and they would indorse me strongly to the Rebel officers. If the letter had been intercepted it would have answered precisely the same purpose. The message was delivered to the Wells family, and, no doubt, the contemplated move of General Burnside below town was reported to the Confederate officers.

While General Grant was preparing for his Wilderness campaign, I learned--in some way that I cannot now recollect--that Captain Wells was a prisoner in the Old Capitol.

At the first opportunity I procured a pass from the Provost-Marshal's Office in Washington, and, calling at the Old Capitol, asked for Captain Wells. I was then in uniform, so that the outside attendants did not recognize in their visitor a former prisoner.

In a little while the Captain was shown into the room. At sight of him my heart ached. The poor old man seemed to have aged wonderfully in the year since I had last seen him. He looked at me, but his eyes were not so good, and, seeing my uniform, he probably supposed that I was one of the guard, and was about turning to an attendant to ask who had called to see him, when I spoke and reached for his hand. Then his face brightened up as he heartily shook hands, and the first words he spoke, in answer to some remark about our altered appearance as he looked at my uniform, were: "We heard you were in Stoneman's cavalry."

General Stoneman was then Chief of Cavalry, and the Southern people, after their own manner, usually named the troops after the commander. When I asked how he had heard from me, when I could not get a word from them, he looked up with that curious smile of his, as he said, significantly: "We got word from a certain good friend of ours telling us about it."

Further conversation was carried on in this guarded way, as an officer sat in front of us and heard every word that was exchanged.

When I asked the Captain about his accommodations, and proposed sending him some fruit and eatables from the outside, he warmly thanked me, adding, with the same peculiar smile: "You know about what we get here, I suppose?"

At this I had to laugh, so did the old Captain, the officer between us looking curiously from one to the other, to try and discover what the joke was that created such merriment.

He told me, then, something of the dreadful experiences of the family, in Fredericksburg, during the bombardment and battles, declaring that he should take them away from there at the first opportunity.

The interviews of visitors were limited to a certain number of minutes, and when my time was up I had to go.

In a few days after the experience of negotiating the decoy over the river, the Army of the Potomac did move, and a demonstration was made precisely as I had indicated. But the history of General Burnside's famous stick-in-the-mud march has already been so well told that I need only to add that this was his plan. If the weather had not changed, or the dreadful Virginia mud had not prevented, General Burnside would have crossed above the town, and might have been successful then, and redeemed himself.

It is now certain that General Lee would have been surprised, and have been compelled to fight the Army of the Potomac on equal terms, outside of fortifications, with General Burnside for a leader. General Hooker afterward did precisely the same thing that General Burnside is so mercilessly criticized for attempting. Hooker failed miserably, after he was over, and when everything was in his grasp. Burnside might have managed it better in Hooker's position.

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Chapter XXX

CONSPIRACIES AMONG UNION GENERALS AND NORTHERN POLITICIANS--THE DEFENSE OF THAT UNAPPRECIATED ARMY, THE CAVALRY--HOOKER AND DEAD CAVALRYMEN--STONEMAN'S CELEBRATED RAID TO RICHMOND TRUTHFULLY DESCRIBED, AND ITS FAILURE TO CAPTURE RICHMOND ACCOUNTED FOR--A CHAPTER ON THE "SECRET SERVICE" NOT REFERRED TO IN OFFICIAL REPORTS OR CURRENT WAR HISTORY.

It is with considerable reluctance that I make this jump in my narrative from the date of Hooker's taking command until his first active movement at Chancellorsville. The months of February, March and nearly all of April were spent in comparative idleness. The massive Army of the Potomac, with its 100,000 men, were in their restful winter quarters on Stafford Heights, opposite Fredericksburg. It is a great mistake, however, to suppose that there was no activity at the headquarters of that army.

We were boiled and stirred up incessantly at headquarters by the little wars and inside conspiracies between our own general officers and against the War Office. The secret history of some of these bickerings would be interesting reading, by way of foot notes to the articles now being contributed to the Century and other war books by some of those who were active participants in these traitorous schemes. I however do not know enough of it (except from personal gossip about headquarters) to permit my venturing upon any detailed exposition.

Sufficient is known, however, in a general way, by the survivors, who were cognizant of the affairs at the time, to bear me out in asserting that among other schemes there was a widespread, organized conspiracy among certain officers to attempt a coup d'etat, by which McClellan was to be made Military Dictator, in place of President Lincoln.

This may be denied again and again, but the unadulterated facts are (and they froze so hard that winter that they will keep to the end) that there was such a conspiracy. The correspondence on the subject with the Copperhead politicians in the North, who were to manage that end, is probably yet in existence. Some day, when the active participators are dead and gone, perhaps the truth may be made known.

On the occasion of a visit to Washington during this long winter siege, I was questioned privately by the Covode Committee as to procuring some information on the subject.

As I have stated before, I had had enough of the politician secret-service business, and did not take kindly to their making any use of me as a spy on our own headquarters. But this much was established: there were agents in Washington, wearing the uniform of the Union Army, who were in communication with our Generals in the field and politicians in the North, who personally sounded certain officers at a certain hotel room on the subject. These officers procured from this traitorous committee all the information they could, and promptly gave it to the Government officials.

Only one more word of this: one, probably two, of the officers who procured this information are prominent officials in the Government service at Washington to-day. Their character for reliability and truthfulness is unimpeachable. That is all I have to say on this question at present.

General Burnside was aware of the intrigues--to call it by a mild term--that were going on among his own officers. As a telegrapher I handled some correspondence with the War Department at the time which, turned onto a screen, would make some "handwriting on the wall" that would more than surprise the war-reading public. The effect would be greater than any magic-lantern or stereopticon exhibition of battlefields.

Burnside wanted to arrest Hooker and his friends as public conspirators. I have heard him talk and act so wildly on this subject, that I believe, if the provocation had been given Burnside, he would have shot some of his corps commanders dead. This is not given as an opinion; I state that there was, and probably is to-day, correspondence on file in the secret archives that would confirm this statement.

It was Mr. Lincoln who personally and privately, through certain friends, held Burnside in check.

Of course Burnside was a little "off" on this subject, but under the distressing conditions and treacherous surroundings of the time it is not surprising that he should lose his balance at times. General Hooker probably was obliged to swallow, in secret, some terrible doses of the same medicine he and others had given to Burnside.

The unhappy condition of our family affairs at headquarters did not affect me directly. There was a general change of staff officers with the change of commanders. (Of course the orderlies followed their chiefs.) I have heretofore explained that I was a "special," on telegraph and signal duty. My work could not be performed by every one, therefore I was let alone.

In general appearance General Hooker was as fine a looking specimen of a General as one would wish to see. In this respect he had but slight advantage over Burnside, whose appearance was more of the "bishop" style of high-toned, gentlemanly dignity. Hooker was a soldier all over. In his ordinary talk he was short and abrupt. When he came out of his office for a ride, he would strut out to his horse, mount him in a jerky way, as if in a bad humor, and ride off on a gallop as if he were going into a fight every time. He was surrounded by a staff who were of course suited to the chief.

In this way the dreary months were passed at headquarters until just before the preparations began for the move to Chancellorsville, when I was ordered on special secret service to go with General Stoneman on his raid to the rear of General Lee.

I do not know either the exact date of Stoneman's raid nor the number of horses used. I have nothing in the way of histories of the war for reference. Desiring to secure something definite in the way of a date, I looked up Appleton's Cyclopedia, which is supposed to be the American standard of reference. Turning to "Cavalry," I found several closely-printed pages of fine type devoted to the subject. With the feeling that the entire Cavalry history of our war would be condensed in this American authority, I squared myself in a comfortable position to study up the subject. After wading through a good deal of ancient history of cavalry in foreign wars--which, by the way, was commended to the Americans as a model system--I at last got down to our own war. Imagine my surprise, if not indignation, to find this authority stating, among other things, that the "Cavalry of the Army of the Potomac was not effectively organized until after General Grant had placed it in charge of General Sheridan."

This statement, so false and misleading, the writer mildly qualifies by admitting that the Cavalry of the Army of the Potomac had been, in a manner, organized by General Hooker, etc. After those few lines of stinted praise devoted to the Cavalry of the Army of the Potomac, this historian goes on at great length to detail the history, organization and work of the Cavalry in the great West.

The authority of General Grant is printed also for the reorganization of that arm of the service in the West, which seems to have required it too. The article shows that General Grant gave General Wilson carte blanche to put this arm into effective service in the West. Then follows a fulsome history of the Western Cavalry, in which the services of General Wilson prominently figure.

Such names as Pleasonton, Stoneman, Custer, Kilpatrick, Buford and Gregg on our side, or Stuart, Wade Hampton, Fitzhugh Lee, Butler, Mosby and others, on the Rebel side, are lost sight of.

I threw the standard American authority on Cavalry down in disgust, and after walking the floor long enough to cool off a little, I turned to the index of the contributors or authors. The explanation was found in one word--it was Wilson. General Wilson furnished the Cavalry article to Appleton's Cyclopedia.

I may be treading on somebody's toes in this little prelude, but I feel that I shall never get on with this story until I relieve my mind on this question. There is in my mind no disposition to criticize the soldiers of the Western Cavalry force, but this fact should be put down, that the Cavalry of the Army of the Potomac did as much toward ending the cruel war as any other branch of the service.

Hooker offered a reward of fifteen dollars for the body of a dead cavalryman. That was Hooker's bluff way of talking, but the facts are, nevertheless, that the cavalry at Chancellorsville did their duty and cut Lee's communications, and if Hooker had done his share there, the Cavalry would have gathered up the trophies and laid them at his feet. Hooker, like some others, talked too much. We all remember his famous message to the President from Chancellorsville (which, by the way, is the only instance on record of the recognition of the Almighty on the part of our general officers in the conduct of the war):

"I have got Lee in such a tight place that God Almighty can't get him out."

Yet within two hours after Hooker had sent this he was running his 130,000 men away from Lee's 60,000.

The Cavalry of the Army of the Potomac was composed of as fine a body of men in 1863 as were to be found in the Army. Our officers were such men as Stoneman, Pleasonton, Buford, Custer, Kilpatrick, Gregg. Such men as the present Commandant at West Point, General Wesley Merritt, who was a Lieutenant in my Company, composed the line officers.

In the Rebel Army, against this force, rode the best blood of the South in such men as Wade Hampton, J. E. B. Stuart, Fitzhugh Lee, Mosby, etc. Not only this best blood in the riders, but the stock they mounted and the arms they carried were of the very best quality.

The Western armies had, comparatively speaking, a free field; they rode hundreds of miles unmolested, while we in Virginia dare not show a head without danger of getting it hit. I am saying all this here not only to relieve my mind, but to help establish the fact that Appleton's Cyclopedia is way off. The Cavalry of the Army of the Potomac made its reputation and did much of its best fighting before Grant and Sheridan saw it. History will prove this. If the reader will ride with me on this raid to Richmond and go over Brandy Station battlefield, also to Aldie and up to Gettysburg, he will be convinced on this point.

When I read of Sheridan's ride down the Valley, done up in poetry, song and painting, I think of Buford's cavalry battle and Hancock's ride to Gettysburg, on the first day, when he turned defeat into a great victory. It was then and there that the great anaconda of secession and rebellion had its back broken. When Grant and Sheridan came out of the West, the head of the serpent was, of course, alive and dangerous, but it was scotched. Therefore the Cavalry of the Army of the Potomac earned, by hard fighting against a superior force, much of its glory before Sheridan came.

Of course there was not much chance for the Cavalry to operate while we were in our winter quarters. The river served to separate the two armies as a sort of barrier or dead-line over which it was dangerous to venture. Yet, almost every winter night a large force of Cavalry was detailed to ride to the upper fords to watch J. E. B. Stuart's raiders.

When spring opened at last, almost everybody expected and desired to get out of our tiresome quarters. Therefore, when the order came to pack our five-days' rations, I may say that the cavalry arm was rejoiced.

One of the reasons for my not being more familiar with the regimental brigade and corps history is that I was always on the staff. I only knew of the movements of such regiments as contained my friends, whom I visited while in camp. On the march I seldom saw any of them. We rode along in a loose, dashing way, seemingly as the spirit moved the General, without any rank formation; the orderlies bringing up the rear in the dust or mud.

I was ordered to hang to headquarters closely, as it was expected that I would be of valuable aid in tapping the Rebel telegraph lines between Richmond and Lee; also, to do any scouting or piloting in the advance to Richmond, and to signal, if necessary, by rockets, from the rear or otherwise, as would be found best, over the rebels' heads, to our army signal officers in Lee's front.

We moved off quietly at night, crossing the river at early dawn at one of the upper fords. I don't remember whether it was Kelly's or Beverly's; anyhow, we had to swim our horses partly over it. I didn't know exactly whither we were bound, except in a general way, that it was to be a big raid behind Lee and perhaps into Richmond.

We succeeded in a remarkable manner in getting started without detection. Stuart's cavalry had been led off on a stern chase after some of our fellows. We passed between Stuart's cavalry and Lee's army. This fact is important, because the Southern historians assert that General Lee was not surprised by Hooker's movement on Chancellorsville. He was, because Stuart couldn't communicate with his General.

I saw at headquarters a dispatch that had been captured by our advance, which indicated this so clearly that our officers were congratulating themselves over the fact of our safety as we rode along the first day.

That our movement was a complete surprise was also clearly seen by the conduct of the inhabitants. We went along quietly enough for awhile, passing houses from which perhaps we could only see a few ladies gazing at us from behind the screened windows. At one door stood an old man leaning on a cane, looking about as old folks are supposed to do when a funeral procession is passing.

In the "quarters" of the contrabands, usually behind the houses, the sights were entirely different, however. Big fat aunties stood out in front of their cabins, but out of sight of the houses, and waved their bare arms or their aprons at us in a happy way; old uncles lined the fences, or stood in the fields with their hoes at a "present" as we went by; pickaninnies of all sizes and shades ran around laughing, showing their white teeth and white eyeballs, capering as they do now a days when a Barnum circus goes along.

At the first halt over the river a sort of general order was read, or, in most cases, talked to the different regiments by their officers, to the effect that "we were in the enemy's country on an important campaign." It was, therefore, imperatively commanded that there be no straggling, no foraging, except under proper escort and under command of an officer.

Each man was asked to exert himself to the utmost to make the movement a success. It was also explained that the movement not only required the greatest vigilance on the part of every man in the command, but it was expected also that the powers of endurance, both of men and horses, would be taxed to the utmost. We must conceal ourselves as much as possible during the daytime and march at night.

One of the towns we reached en route was Louisa Court House. In Virginia, all the county seats are named court houses. Louisa was not much of a prize, to be sure, but it was directly in General Lee's rear at Chancellorsville.

In this quiet old place we bivouacked for a half day or more, while our forces were up and down the roads, destroying railroad tracks.

Somewhere in this neighborhood is the railroad running between Gordonsville and Richmond. This track was torn up, and all the railroad route to Manassas Gap and Washington City from the South was made useless.

Most of the readers know how a railroad track is destroyed in war, so I shall describe it very briefly. Of course we were supplied with the "tools" for drawing spikes from the ties quickly. A number of rails at a certain point are lifted; the cross-ties are then taken up and built into a sort of open-work, brick-kiln-shaped pile several feet high, being quite narrow at the top. On top of this pile of well-oil-soaked, weather-dried logs are laid the iron rails which have been lifted from them. These are placed so that the middle of the rail rests on the ties, the long, heavy ends being balanced over the sides. A fire is kindled in the tie pile; the grease in the ties, perhaps aided a little by more combustibles, soon makes as hot a fire as comes from the top of a furnace. The ties burn up slowly, but with such a constant heat that the iron rails soon become red hot. While in this soft condition the overhanging weight of the long ends causes them to bend and twist out of shape. This renders the rails utterly useless for a railroad track. They become old scrap-iron, and must be worked over at a mill before they can be used again as rails. It cannot be straightened out by any process that will admit of its being again used in rebuilding the destroyed tracks.

I saw at one point on the track where these hot rails had been lifted off the fire and twisted around the trunks of trees. After they had cooled in that shape, the only way to get the old iron was to cut down the tree and lift the loop over the stump. Of course, the rebels could repair the tracks in time, but to do this required several days in which new rails could be transported to the spot.

One of the purposes of this raid to Richmond was to destroy the immense Tredegar Iron Works on the James River. This large establishment supplied the Confederates with nearly all their iron materials, such as cannon, shells, bridge material, and a thousand other articles necessary in war. To have effected its demolition would have most seriously crippled the Rebellion.

Of course the details for this anticipated railroad destruction had been carefully planned before we started. All the necessary appliances for the work had been brought along. Each officer knew exactly what he was expected to do, and, as a rule, they all successfully completed their tasks. It was expected that I should be of service in tapping the telegraph wires, and to me was left, in a general way, the oversight of the telegraph business.

The General and his Staff, to which I was attached, did not, of course, ride in the extreme advance. Imagine my surprise and disgust, on coming up with a party of these railroad wreckers, to find that they had exceeded their instructions, and cut down nearly a mile of telegraph poles to burn with their ties. They had gathered the wire up and piled it in heaps on the fires. This was exactly what I did not want done. My purpose was to first tap the wires and attach my pocket instrument and have some fun out of it. Another reason for disappointment was, that I had discovered--if not patented--a safer and surer method of destroying telegraph lines. Of course a mile of wire is more easily transported then a mile of rails. Two men can carry a half-mile coil of wire. A telegraph line can be rebuilt and used with the wire lying on trees, or even fences, in dry weather. Therefore, the cutting out of a mile of poles was not an effectual interruption. My plan was--and I call attention of future war-telegraphers to it--to first take some of the small magnet wire, which is so thin as to be almost invisible, attach this to the insulator hook, or wire at the top of the pole, lead the thread of wire down the pole, imbedding it, if possible, in some seam or crack to further conceal it, and at the bottom of the pole run the other point of wire into the ground. If this is done, be the wire even as small as a silk thread, and made of copper, all electric communication is effectually conducted off its channel. Each current, or wave, or signal, sent from either side of this wire will take the short cut and follow it to the ground, where it becomes lost. Neither side can converse or signal over such an obstruction, and they do not know the character or location of the trouble, as the wire works as usual. Of course each operator will wonder why the other does not respond to his signals, and absence is taken for granted as the reason.

I had supplied myself with a quantity of this fine copper wire. Finding the point nearest Gordonsville where the wire had not been removed from the poles, I attached a thread of this thin wire to the line-wire and led it to the earth, so as to be concealed. I knew very well, from long experience, that the telegraph operator at Gordonsville would know, from the loss of all circuit, that the wire had been destroyed at some point, and it would become his first duty to send a man out along the road to find out and repair the damage.

We did not want Gordonsville to know that we, the Yankee raiders, were the destroyers. The piece of wire which I attached to the ground made the circuit short but complete, so that the wire worked as usual up to that concealed point, but no further. When the linemen should come out to repair breaks he would find the wire broken. This he would repair speedily and return to Gordonsville without discovering the little ground-trap that I had set. In time it would be discovered, by a system of tedious and expensive tests from pole to pole, but this would probably consume several days. A broken or destroyed gap of wire could be at once discovered and rebuilt in a few hours.

On the same evening, at a point some distance below this destroyed gap of railroad and telegraph wire, I drew the wire down from a convenient pole in a secluded way-side grove.

It was about sundown when I, with a few helpers, was dancing around a pole when the General and Staff road by. Seeing us engaged in this apparently mysterious business, their curiosity was of course, aroused; we were questioned, the General and his entire Staff stopping to watch the result of tapping the rebel wires.

Unfortunately, the premature cutting of the wires that morning had interfered with my plans for working quietly and secretly in this direction. When I got my little relay attached to the wire, you may imagine with what nervousness I took hold of the adjustment spring to feel for a signal from a distant rebel operator, probably in Richmond.

At first there were no signs of life on the wire. It was while my face was turned away from the instrument, talking to General Stoneman of the mistake of the men in cutting the wire, that I heard a faint click on the magnet. I turned from the General abruptly, bent my ear to the little ticker, and listened with every nerve and sense strained.

A second signal was soon made, which was lost to my ear by some loud talking among the Staff. I nervously turned to them and ordered General Stoneman and his Staff to "keep still."

That's a fact. The General laughed quietly, but didn't dare to open his mouth again.

I made the signal for interrogation, or question, which all operators understand to mean, "I did not hear you," or "What did you say?" The answer came back "Sign," which means give your signature or your office. I judged at once that, whoever it was, he'd got wind of the raid and was suspicious. I merely said, as any operator was likely to do after a wire has been interrupted, "Is this wire O. K. now?" The answer came back from some point that I dare not attempt to locate by a question: "The wire has been down all day."

I was compelled to break off the talk by wire to gratify the curiosity of the General and Staff by an explanation. I told them I had "got" somebody, but did not know who, and was afraid to give myself away by asking any questions. The General suggested, "You had better say that the Yankees cut the wires, and that they have been driven back home again."

As suggested by the General, I telegraphed: "The wire was cut by those Yankees on horseback, but it's fixed now."

"Is that so? Who is it?" were the questions fired at me.

"I'm a repairman sent out to fix this wire. The Yankees were chased back by J. E. B. Stuart to-day."

"Good enough. I thought Jeb wouldn't allow that," were some of the expressions which were used in reply.

I conveyed these messages to the General and Staff, to their great delight and amusement. The General was anxious to find out whom we had on the wire. They all saw from the automatic ticking of the little machine, when my hands were off it, that it was something at a distance making the signals. To gratify the General, and get around the question, I asked: "Is it 'Rd?'" which is the signal I had myself heard used, when I was at Beauregard's headquarters, from the Richmond office.

"No; it's Supt.'s Office." That was enough. It was the Railroad General Superintendent's Office. I had reason to think they had been led off by this talk, and hoped that they would notify the Richmond officials that the communication by wire had been restored, and that the Yankees had been driven off. In reality, we had more effectually destroyed their communication. Instead of being driven off, these Yankees proposed moving south at once toward Richmond.

The General and Staff rode off, evidently well satisfied with the little experiment. I was directed to lose no time in following. I "fixed" this wire to the ground, as I had the other side of the gap, and, after reporting to the Superintendent's Office that everything was O. K., left.

I have no doubt that both the Superintendent's Office and Gordonsville "called" each other quite a long time that evening, and perhaps each supposed the other had closed his office for the night and gone home. Each one of the wires seemed to be all right; in reality it was, as far as these two taps to the ground.

To make a surer tap, or to more effectually blind the regular telegraph repair force, I carried with me some leather thongs rolled into a shape resembling an ordinary piece of line wire. These bits of leather "wires" were inserted in the telegraph line and connected by the twisted joint, precisely in the same manner as the real wire. The effect is to break the continuity of the wire, or metallic circuit. A piece of this sort of leather an inch in length, inserted into the wire, as completely destroys the use of 100 miles of wire as if 50 miles of it had been torn down. Of course, it will be understood that the leather is a non-conductor of electricity. Not a wave of the current will get over it. To prevent detection, the leather, or tarred twine, should be an exact imitation of the real wire. In time it will be detected, of course, but an ordinary repairman on the lookout for a break will inspect the wire for days without discovering the hidden flaw.

We traveled nearly all of that night, reaching, I think, nearly to the James River the next morning. We did not all go in a body or bunch, of course. Every road was occupied by detachments of the raiders. We went as we pleased, giving to the people of the interior of Virginia a sight of the Federal uniform for the first and only time.

A great many of those F. F. V.'s, whom we called upon at their mansions, discovered, to their chagrin, that the despised "Yankee on a horse" was a good soldier and a gentleman. Such men as Custer, Kilpatrick, Buford and Gregg were there.

It would fill a good-sized pamphlet to tell all that I saw on this raid, so I shall condense as much as possible. We had destroyed all the railroads in our rear, and were ready to move on the direct line between Fredericksburg and Richmond.

Several days after we were out, the headquarters were resting or bivouacking at a large, old-fashioned tavern. I don't remember the name of the place, but it may be briefly described as one of those country stopping-places that are so frequent on roads traveled by stages and freight wagons. On the front of the house, along its entire length, was the wide porch, containing the usual row of benches and clusters of big hickory chairs. From this porch, doors opened into a broad hall running through the middle of the house, also into the office, or bar-room, at the end of the porch. Around the corner were the benches, or sinks, containing the basins, or bowls, for washing, while on the wall were hung a row of towels on rollers.

Seated about this porch, promiscuously, were General Stoneman and Staff. They had sampled some of the whisky in the bar, and ordered warm meals for themselves. The attaches and orderlies were scattered around, as were the bodyguard.

A little distance from the house was a stream of water, or "crick," which we learned emptied into the James River, near by.

We were then above or west of Richmond, on the James River. We were all feeling pretty tired, and, to put it mildly, we rested uneasily at the old house. The landlord was like every other landlord at such a place--pot-bellied, red-nosed, good-natured, and pompous.

I had expected, when we rode off so briskly, that I should ride into Fredericksburg from the rear. I felt on that side of the river, which had separated us all winter, I was sure of seeing Geno at last. The great obstruction of the river, which had been in sight all winter, was now out of mind for the time being. Having heard of the occupation of the town by our forces, it occurred to me that I might make a little break on my own hook, and ride up to Fredericksburg.

I said something about it to one of the Staff-officers, who replied that I'd better hold on and go along with the rest of them. Getting impatient at this point, where it seemed as if we were hiding (ourselves and horses) in the woods, I suggested going out to our advance, in hopes of finding a telegraph wire to tap for news.

This was readily agreed to. I was furnished a couple of men and directed to the nearest "main road." This, as I now recall it, was a road running west from Richmond toward the Valley. My impression--gathered from the colored people--was, that the road led to Lexington or Staunton. Anyway, I followed it out some way until we found an old-fashioned telegraph line. I mean by this, one of the early kind built along the highways.

There seemed to be but little travel along that route just then, so we had a good chance to get at the wire without being seen. One of the men held our horses and kept guard while another climbed or reached up to the wire from a fence.

I felt sure, from its dilapidated appearance, that it was some abandoned old wire. It was rusted so deeply that it snapped asunder at the first touch of the nippers. While hastily drawing it together again I felt the shock of a live current in the hand which held the wire. This satisfied me that we would get something for our trouble.

After I had inserted my instrument into the circuit, the delicate little armature was at once strongly attracted to the magnet. Adjusting my spring, I discovered, to my surprise, that our cutting of the wire had interrupted some dispatches. That they were important, I gathered from the impatient manner of the operator, demanding to know why he should be stopped so long in such an important dispatch. I let the two operators fight it out among themselves for a few moments on that line, each accusing the other of being responsible for the delay. When they got started again, I quietly listened to the ticks of the sending operator. The first words seemed to be giving an account of a battle, in which certain friends had been injured.

Not being able to restrain my curiosity, and knowing, too, that we occupied dangerous ground on that highway, I "broke in," at the first chance, to say:

"Are the Yanks in Fredericksburg?"

"Not much," was the answer which came to my ears and made my heart sink.

"Why, I heard they were there."

"They were there, but Uncle Bob scattered them all back, and they are running on Washington. Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm a strange operator from New Orleans. I stepped in at this office to get the news, and found the operator out."

"Well, the news is, the Yanks are all gone to h---- again, and General Lee is marching on Washington."

I don't remember whether I thanked the Richmond man or not; it's likely not, as I was so much worked up that I didn't know what I was doing. I hastily told my companions what I had heard.

They indignantly denied the truth of the story, and insisted that the Rebel operator was fooling me. On being taunted with this insinuation, I returned to the key to ask further questions.

In the meantime the ticking kept up, and when I again directed my ear to it, I heard that which convinced me of the truthfulness of the report. A report, or long dispatch, was being sent, explanatory of Stonewall Jackson's being wounded, etc. Without again questioning the operator, I learned beyond a doubt, in a convincing way, that there had been a battle, and that the Rebels claimed a victory.

That was enough for that day. We didn't stop to fool any longer with that wire, but left it open on the ground, took to our horses and galloped back to the big house. The General and Staff were in the dining-room. I gave my information breathlessly to one of the Staff, who communicated it to the General. At once officers were ordered to go in certain directions, to confirm, if possible, this report. In a very little while my report was so far confirmed by other scouts that the mass of the force then scattered over the country, was ordered to move back rapidly under cover of the coming night.

We at headquarters lay around the house until dark, the General and officers assuming an air of cheerfulness and indifference they did not feel.

In order to deceive the landlord and any Rebel spies that might be hanging around about us, an order was openly issued for a large detachment to move forward, or in the advance to Richmond. The officer in command was, I think, Custer. He understood his business, and quietly let it be known, through his men and the colored people about, that they were all going ahead. As a matter of fact, his orders were to move cautiously in that direction and to conceal his force in the woods. At dark he was to retrace his steps and follow us, becoming our rear-guard on the retreat.

We were in a tight place, a mighty tight place, being miles from our own base, not only with a victorious army between us, but J. E. B. Stuart had got loose, and now had the leisure to follow us up. We must recross the Rapidan and Rappahannock at certain fords. I can not go into the details of this great movement. Anyone who reads must see that the problem of extricating this large body of cavalry was a most difficult military feat. Yet the movement was made completely and successfully by the skillful handling of the troops by General Stoneman and his efficient aides--Custer, Kilpatrick, Buford and Gregg.

At the time I knew General Stoneman he was a little past middle age. I think his short beard and mustache were tinged with gray. In features he somewhat resembled Sedgwick. He was not, therefore, a handsome man. In fact, to most persons, General Stoneman had rather an austere, dignified bearing that was somewhat repellant. He was cross--awfully cross about headquarters. The boys used to call him "Dyspepsia," which I think rather an appropriate title. As a rule, the pet names given the Generals were suitable.

Some of those who had probably run against him when his hardtack and bacon did not sit well on his stomach, were fond of intimating that he had conspired to beat Pleasonton and his friends out of their commands. I don't know how this was, but it is certain Pleasonton was manoeuvered out of it for the time being. Pleasonton recently told me this entire history. There were many "conspiracies" going on in Virginia about that time. Stoneman's loyalty was even questioned by some of our extra patriots from New England; probably because he was connected by marriage with an influential Southern family residing in Baltimore.

I reckon he was one of the McClellan-Franklin-Fitz-John-Porter-Smith-and-Hooker clique. One little incident on the march will serve to show his notion of the proper conduct of the war.

We all foraged a little, despite the general order prohibiting it. As a matter of fact, it was necessary that we should do so to procure feed for our jaded horses. While on these expeditions after forage for horses, etc., the men took the opportunity to buy from the colored people.

We had a great supply of imitation Confederate money along. Indeed, the boys generally found out that any piece of paper that looked at all like a dollar bill would go among the ignorant contrabands. Paper money was new to them, and it was all alike, good, whether the label off a pill-box or a genuine greenback. In this way we got around the order against foraging. We also tendered to the white people their own Confederate money. If they got mad and demanded gold and silver, the boys were apt to get mad, too, and help themselves. One day a lot of us were clearing out a smoke-house in the rear of a big mansion. A certain officer--now a Brigadier-General in the Regular Cavalry Service--was in command of the detachment. We had tried to buy, but they wouldn't sell, so the boys helped themselves.

In that part of the country, the farmers, being so far distant from the towns, kept a large supply of provisions on hand. In addition to hams and shoulders, etc., there was a barrel of molasses inside. Every fellow there filled his canteen and everything he had with the long-drawn sweetness. It was this slow-running molasses that got us into trouble, by keeping the boys there too long, waiting their turn at the spigot. While we were leaving, Stoneman and Staff rode by the house. Seeing us coming away loaded down with hams, etc., he halted, asked for the officer, who rode up and saluted.

"What are you doing there?" yelled the General.

"The men were foraging." The officer only got this word out when Stoneman stopped him with an oath--

"Foraging h----! You're stealing; you're leading a band of robbers." Turning and putting spurs to his horse, he dashed down the road, leaving the discomfited officer standing at the head of his enlisted men, who had heard the unmerited rebuke. That officer was Wesley Merritt, now General. I suppose General Stoneman was afterward informed that we had tried to buy, etc.

On a long march of this kind, it is the horses that first give out. As a cavalryman, I believe I speak for the whole of that arm of the service in saying, that we were always willing to do without ourselves, but the poor horse must be provided for.

A cavalryman may be starved and tired almost to exhaustion, but he will walk miles, in all sorts of weather, doing without sleep or rest, to carry back an armful of hay or fodder for his horse. It's one of the dreadful things to be compelled to ride, day and night, a tired, hungry, but ever-faithful horse.

The men become so much attached to their horses that they will steal, and risk their lives recklessly, to get them a feed. In the Regular Service, the men were discouraged from forming any of these horse attachments. It was found that, when once a soldier made a pet of his horse, he was apt to be too careful of him.

Mr. Lincoln's jocular remark, that horses had become more valuable than their riders, because the horses were getting scarce, contains a great deal of truth.

More consideration was given to the horses than to the men. As an illustration of the point, the first night of this return march I was approached by an officer, who was hunting volunteers to ride in the advance to the river, to get help at the crossings. I explained that I had been out in the advance every hour and was played out, and was willing, but afraid I could not stand it. The only consolation I got from the officer was, "Can your horse stand it? We will risk you."

The officer explained further that he had been sent after me, because I was understood to be familiar with the country. I was not familiar with that part of the country, but I agreed to join this advance. Orders were given to be prepared to move quietly when called upon, and we all layed down for a little sleep.

In all the pictures of the war published, I have failed to find what I think would be one of the most striking--a squadron of cavalrymen, sleeping on their arms under their horses' noses. The horses, saddled, are all in line; the men, all heavily armed, are lying right in front sleeping, with the bridle-rein loosely fastened to their left hand. I have slept soundly, and sweetly, in a line like this. The horse will sleep and rest also. There is no fear of the horse treading on his sleeping rider. He seems instinctively to understand that they are both occupying dangerous ground and must stick together.

It was while resting in this position, after the interview with the officer, that I formed a plan to go alone in advance of this advance to our army. At the first opportunity, I suggested to this officer that I should go alone and see the lay of the land. I preferred this to being one of a squad of mounted men to ride along to hunt the Rebel sharpshooters.

If there is anything in war that is embarrassing, it is to be on a cavalry line with orders to draw the enemy's fire.

On Stoneman's raid, and after, the force generally was fought dismounted; that is, No. 4 holds the horses of Nos. 1, 2 and 3, who advance as an infantry skirmish-line. They are armed with Spencer rifles, and go along gingerly over a big field, at the other end of which is a wood, to ascertain if the Rebels are in that wood. The poor skirmishers know damn well the Rebs are there, but their orders are to go down in this way, and find out by getting shot at.

Having had a taste of this sort of advance-guard service, wherein I had attracted too much Rebel fire, I was anxious to be excused. My plan was to go alone on my horse as a Scout or Spy. I should not carry any arms to be seen, and would dress as a Rebel or country farmer-boy. I thought that, in this guise, I could ride freely over the roads and get into our lines. The scheme seemed to please our officer immensely, and he reported the matter to General Stoneman's Chief of Staff. I was ordered to report to the Chief, and again unfolded my plan. He suggested, among other things, that I should, if I met any questioners, endeavor to mislead them as to the number and, especially, the route of our cavalry.

A disguise was obtained; it was a dirty old jacket, borrowed from a contraband cook. Several persons interested themselves in my make up; one got me a straw hat, another a pair of trousers, etc.

I left all my arms except a pistol, and, when ready to go, I paralyzed them by demanding a bunch of signal rockets. I explained that I should only use them in case of extreme danger; that the appearance of a certain rocket at night would indicate that that neighborhood was to be avoided. In carrying these rockets, and exploding them, I knew that I ran great personal risk, but somehow I felt that, alone, I would be able to get through. I was only nervous and doubtful of myself when working in company.

The General, or at least his Staff, was most solicitous that I should deceive or mislead the people as to their real force and purpose. We only anticipated serious trouble at the fords on the Rapidan, and possibly the Rappahannock.

The General had heard, through the Captain, of some sick and wounded Rebel soldiers who were returning from Chancellorsville to the interior, that Hooker had been defeated. He had also ascertained that the report I had brought about their marching on Washington City was exaggerated. We expected, naturally, that some steps would be taken by our army to help us out. We also expected that Stuart would endeavor to head us off and capture the entire force.

This was about the condition of things when I started out on the road alone towards the Rappahannock. For mile after mile I met nothing. At the few scattered houses I would dash up and breathlessly ask for information about the Yankees. At the colored quarters I scattered the news that the Yankees had gone back into the Valley.

On this return march, Stoneman did not once show a horse on a road during the daytime. This fact probably accounts for his success. During every day the men were all concealed in suitable places. Skirmishers, of course, kept guard, and, at a moment's warning, the whole cavalry force would have been up in arms as infantry behind breastworks to repel an attack. The marching was all done at night. Men sleep pretty well on horseback when they are as tired out as were Stoneman's raiders. A column of horses will follow each other without the use of any bridle over the most devious roads.

One of the funny things about the raid was, that nearly half of the cavalrymen were bare-headed when they got back. This resulted from sleeping in the saddle on these night marches. The narrow roads we were compelled to take were overhung with the branches of trees; these stripped the hats off the sleeping beauties. Very often, too, the rider in front would grasp a switch, or limb, and hold on till he was safely passed; then, without a thought of the sleepy rider in his rear, he would let go, and the switch, flying back, would strike the man in the face. This sort of thing wakened up a good many sleepers and made some disturbances in the ranks. It had the effect, also, of making the faces of those who caught the switch look decidedly as if they had come out of a free fight, especially if they were hatless.

My ride along during that day was without special incident. I was more than surprised to find the path clear of Rebel soldiers. I did all that was expected of me as a Scout, in circulating freely the false information that our force had gone the other way.

With a great deal of trepidation I approached the crossing of the Rapidan. I knew that, if there was a force of Rebels any place in our path, they would be there. I inquired particularly of everyone I would meet if there were any Yankees on the road. I knew very well that, in asking this question, I'd find out whether there were Rebels around. There were no Yankees there, but a few of the Rebels had been seen over the river in the morning. Here was my dilemma. The crossing was clear now, but how long it would remain so was uncertain.

I was too far from our men to make any signal to them that the road was clear. I didn't like to venture over the river alone, where those Rebels had been seen. The important thing was to report that ford clear. I staked my horse in an adjoining grove, determined to conceal myself until night.

As the early evening wore on and no enemy showed themselves, I became impatient at lying idle, and boldly determined to ride back to our force before dark. I knew very well that, once we were safely over that river at this crossing, with its steep precipitous banks, with our men in force, we had a clear field for a run, or a fight with J. E. B. Stuart to the Rappahannock.

Therefore I rode back at a gallop over all the long road. Just after dark I met the advance of our force,--the same I had been asked to volunteer with.

Hastily informing the officer in command of my observations at the ferry, that the crossing was not occupied, etc., he reported to the General.

In a little while there came dashing up the road the head of our column. Nobody stopped to thank me for the good news that we could get over the river, but all were intent on getting there at once. In a word, the entire force got over all right, and, in due time, we crossed the Rappahannock, and were once more safely within our own lines.

I do not know the figures for this raid. I have drawn my recollections of it to an abrupt termination. My impression is, that we lost nothing of material importance. We captured a good many prisoners, probably more than we lost. My notion is that the cavalry can boast that we brought back the force intact.

One great good was accomplished by the raid--the Rebels were again taught to show more respect to a Yankee on horseback. It was Hooker who failed, not his cavalry.

The truth should not be overlooked, that the partial success of the expedition was not due to General Hooker, nor even to his Lieutenant, General Stoneman. The one man to whom more credit is probably due than any other was General Alexander, the Chief of Staff of the Cavalry Corps, who served both with Stoneman and Pleasonton. It was he who planned and organized this great raid; it was his object and aim to go to Richmond, and that we did not go in while at the back gates of the city is to be charged solely to Stoneman or Hooker.

This is not an opinion merely. I rode close by General Alexander one day, and heard him with my own big ears urge, yes plead with Stoneman to go on into Richmond anyhow. I heard Stoneman's voice utter the words: "I know d---- well we can do it, but my orders are not to go to Richmond."

General Alexander was a large man, with a full beard, who talked in a slow, deliberate voice, but always in a kindly manner. He became somewhat ruffled at Stoneman's declining to act upon his suggestion, and I recall very distinctly how this ordinarily quiet man became as much interested in his subject as a Methodist preacher or politician in an argument, on horseback.

Both were so intent upon the question that neither took any notice of the little orderly in a dirty uniform who was riding near them.

My impression then was that Stoneman was too much of a regular of the old school to disobey an order, even if he knew it would result in great good to his cause.

Whether there was such an order from headquarters can perhaps be established from the records--

That one could have gone into Richmond was freely admitted by the general officer in command.

We returned to our old camps at Fredericksburg again. In this way I hovered about that ill-fated Fredericksburg during all that winter, and until the movement to Gettysburg, without once having an opportunity to get into the town, though our troops had been there. It was my luck to have been absent at the time. For some unfathomable reason, the fates were against me every time.

I shall never do this subject justice until I write a novel, giving the entire story.

Fredericksburg during all these days presented, from our side, a gloomy, deserted appearance. There were always a few Confederate sentries on duty, which we could see on the streets. At the river crossing, or ferry, an occasional flag-of-truce boat would be rowed over, but on these occasions the General Staff-officers conducted the courtesies. Men and orderlies were invariably placed to prevent any but the two officers interested from getting a word with the Confederates.

Right here I will remark that I've witnessed innumerable flag-of-truce exchanges, but I do not recall a single instance in which a bottle was not passed around as a preliminary to the business in hand. I presume the custom originated from the Indians smoking the pipe of peace.

One funny remark on an occasion of this sort remains in my memory. An enlisted man near me, seeing a Rebel taking a long pull at the flask of Union commissary, which our officer presented with a supercilious bow, said: "Well, I'm ---- if this is not getting to be too much of a civil war." He probably felt disgusted because he did not have an opportunity at the flask.

One day I was startled by the sounds of artillery, and an accompaniment, which, to me, resembled more than anything I can compare it with, a whole lot of carpenters tearing down a frame house. One would have thought there was a man with a hatchet, pounding sharply on every board, as if they were having a contest among themselves to see who could hit the fastest.

I rode hurriedly down to the river, below town, to see what it was all about. In those days, I never stopped to ask anybody's advice or consent, but followed my own impulses and inclinations. I passed some General officers and Staff on a hill-side near the batteries that were firing, who had their glasses pointed in the direction of the hammering.

When I got to the river, as close as my horse could go without jumping down the steep bank, I saw, to my surprise, that from all along the rifle-pits that lined the top of the bank on the Rebel side was a line of white smoke--indeed, the smoke almost concealed the rifle-pits.

It was from behind this bank of foggy smoke that all the hammering noises came. It was caused by the sounds of hundreds and hundreds of rifle-shots "at will," but in such rapid succession that it resembled, as I have said, innumerable hammers on a frame house.

My horse could not get me close enough to see down to the edge of the water on our side, and I was about to dismount and get closer, when I saw coming up the steep road, that had been cut in the bank, a procession that took the blood out of my heart. There were two men dragging (not carrying) a dead soldier, while a closer glance showed all along the side of that steep bank dozens of others, either dead or dying.

It was the Engineer Corps of the Army of the Potomac that were down there behind that bank trying to lay a pontoon bridge over the Rappahannock.

The artillery "support" had no more effect in quieting that incessant hammering than if their shots had been fired into the air.

I stood there for a while, absolutely paralyzed, at a distance not much greater than the width of a street, watching those Rebels bob up all along that rifle-pit, puff out the white smoke, and their heads go down behind the long line of yellow clay out of sight, all along the line.

I have often since wondered that one of those fellows did not pick me off my horse, as I sat there an absurdly-conspicuous mark.

If they had not been so busy watching those who were trying to lay that pontoon, they would undoubtedly have dropped me. My position on the horse would naturally be taken for that of an officer. I assert here that more desperate or more heroic service has never been performed than by those of our Engineer Corps in their laying of pontoons in the face of the enemy's fire from rifle-pits.

It seemed to me, on a closer inspection of the work that day, that they carried out a dead man for every plank they laid on the pontoons. When it is remembered that these men necessarily work en masse, and that almost every shot from an enemy must hit something, it will be seen how much exposed to deadly fire the quiet Engineer Corps become. In the charges on rifle-pits or forts, or on an enemy's line, there is always something of the excitement of a rush or hurrah that impels men forward with loaded guns and pointed bayonets in their hands; but, in laying pontoons over a river in the face of the enemy, a courage and nerve are required that, to my notion, is far beyond the ordinary.

I often wonder that some of the accomplished Engineer officers do not give this matter their attention in the histories of the war that every other branch of the service is showering upon the land.

These men, supported by the artillery and a few infantry, succeeded at last in getting so many boats launched that the Rebels concluded it was time to quit bothering them any longer, when, all at once, every Rebel popped from behind his rifle-pits, took to his heels and ran for dear life across the plain toward the hills. Of course, our artillery opened upon them at a lively rate. In spite of the fact that the dead and wounded were thick around me, I yelled with as much fun and delight as I have since at baseball games to see a man make a home-run.

Not a single Johnny dropped, though they threw their guns away to lighten them in the race for the home-run.

This occurred some distance below Fredericksburg, and as there did not seem to me to be any intended movement of troops over the pontoons, which had been laid at such a terrible sacrifice of life, I rode off to the upper fords near the Lacey House, expecting to get over there. I was told, on reaching headquarters, that this was simply a "diversion," to detain, or ascertain if the enemy were still in our front.

Great Scott! what a disappointment to me. What a terrible thing is war, that will permit, as a simple diversion, the murdering in cold blood of hundreds of men without intending to profit by their work at all.

The services of a single reliable Spy, or Scout, would have accomplished more than all of this diversion. That evening the Staff moved off and I went along. I did not know then where we were going. I supposed, as did everyone else, that it was to be another battle somewhere near Fredericksburg. It never occurred to my mind then, that, in riding away from the Lacey House that June evening, I should never see it again.

I do not suppose a dozen persons outside of General Lee's staff, imagined we were going to ride home to Pennsylvania--to Gettysburg. That's where we went. And, before leaving Fredericksburg, I wanted to say a few words of farewell to Geno.

There are one or two old, old songs, which have always remained such particular favorites with me that my friends have learned to expect me to call for them, in season or out of season.

I mention them now for the benefit of the sons and daughters of veterans, and the other friends, young and old, who have followed the "boy" in his love-making under the great difficulties that a war develops.

They are beautiful songs besides and the words and melody more clearly define the romance than my pen could describe.

I have already detailed the experiences with Geno, who so gracefully handled a guitar in her beautifully-formed bare arms, as she skillfully played an accompaniment to "Juanita." It was that old, old song and "them" eyes that put me in Old Capitol Prison.

I would advise any of the young lady readers, with black hair and pretty eyes, to get a guitar and practice "Juanita" on the boys. It will bring them down every time.

Another old favorite is "Evangeline," which so fully expresses my sentiments on the past.

Surely, there never was a sweeter and more appropriate love song than my "Lost Evangeline." While the song of separation is the sweetly familiar "In the Gloaming."

Another beautiful air and words is entitled "Someday"--strikingly expressive of future hopes. This I heard sung first in the parlor of a hotel in the far, far West, when I was traveling in California, where it had the effect of making me homesick.

Since the close of the war, I have wandered all over the land, like Gabriel in search of his Evangeline. I was shipwrecked on the Pacific Ocean at the mouth of the Columbia River, in the extreme Northwest. I sailed up the Columbia River with some such feelings as an explorer must experience on discovering a new continent. I visited the eternally snow-capped Mount Hood, rode around Puget Sound to British Columbia, went over the Cascades and The Dalles, in Oregon, to the western slope of the Rocky Mountains in Montana, thence over miles of wild mountain roads in Oregon and California on stage coaches, where Indians and stage-robbers thrive. I have lived in San Francisco, spent part of a winter in Los Angeles, lived among the Mormons in Utah for six months; in truth, I have been everywhere, but I have not yet found a trace of the long-lost Geno. While I have not exactly been searching for Geno on these travels, I have never given up the hope of some day seeing her, and as long as I live I never shall.

I don't know how it may be with Geno; it is likely she has a good husband--better than I would have been--and that she is devoted to him and her family; but, in my secret heart, I hope the old saying will prove true, that a woman never forgets her first love, and that some day, in some unseen manner, Geno may read this and see that I have not forgotten her. This has been to my life only a sweet memory, which I shall cherish fondly as such to the end. "Her bright smile haunts me still."

"Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; Oh, death in life! the days that are no more."

After leaving Falmouth, the headquarters of Cavalry corps were quartered in an old house somewhere convenient to the railroad and telegraph wires that run into Alexandria. It was probably close by the Sixth Corps' position, as General Sedgwick occupied the same house with his Staff, and as their horses were tied about the fences.

One little incident will serve to locate me. General Pleasonton was then the Chief of Cavalry, to whose General Staff I was afterward attached. He also occupied rooms in this same building. Late one night a message was brought in to me to deliver to the General. The building we were in had been apparently deserted by the family. I was told by some of the officers that I'd find General Pleasonton in his room up stairs. I went tramping up the uncarpeted steps, with my big cavalry boots and spurs rattling and resounding through the great empty hall in the "wee sma' hours," so that I awakened Colonel Blake, who was wrapped up in his blanket trying to sleep on the hall floor. The old Colonel gave me a terrific blast from his bugle mouth, which awakened every officer in the house. Some one crawling from under another blanket pointed to General Pleasonton's room, which I entered unceremoniously, glad enough to get any place out of sound of the old Colonel's voice.

I found General Pleasonton, by the aid of the commissary candle I carried for a lantern, lying asleep on an ambulance stretcher. At the head of his couch stood an empty cracker-box, on which was the remnant of his student lamp--about an inch of candle--along side of which were two derringer pistols.

Probably because I was nervous or rattled, by the fuss I had raised in the hall outside, I abruptly awakened the General, at the same moment stooping down to light his candle with mine. The General must have been having a nightmare. The moment I spoke he started up, grabbed for his pistols, and scared me so badly that I dropped the candle on the floor, leaving us in the dark, retreating to the door, as I said: "Don't shoot; it's me." After another "blessing" for my midnight endeavor to deliver a message, I got the matter straightened out.

I was telling General Pleasonton of this incident recently, which he recalled in his usual pleasant manner, though he insists that he never carried a pistol during the entire war.

General Pleasonton was certainly one of the most courteous, gentlemanly General officers in the Army of the Potomac.

It was my privilege and pleasure to be near his person a great deal up to Gettysburg, and I cannot recall a single instance of his using harsh or ungentlemanly language toward his associates. Indeed, the General had more the appearance and manner of a Presbyterian minister than of a dashing cavalryman. During the war, he wore his full beard closely trimmed, going about the camps in his quiet, easy way, like a chaplain.

It was Custer, and Kilpatrick, and Gregg, who possessed the dashing, dare-devil style. Buford, like Pleasonton, was an old Regular, and went about among his troops as if the war was a business that could not be hurried.

I saw General Pleasonton angry one day at a matter that seemed so trifling that all the Staff enjoyed the affair. His servant, or hostler, who took care of his blooded riding horse, had been regularly supplied by the General with a little cash, to be used in keeping a supply of loaf or lump sugar on hand. It was the General's habit before mounting to receive from his hostler a lump of the sugar, which he fed himself to his horse. It is said, you know, that the feeding of a lump of sugar to a horse regularly has an effect similar to love powders, and creates a peculiar attachment of the horse to the feeder of the sugar.

On this occasion, either the contraband had spent the sugar allowance for "commissary," or some one desired to play a trick on the General by substituting some lumps of drugs from the hospital steward's chest for the sugar. The horse found out the deceit and kicked on it, and investigation showed the General that he had been trifled with, and he was very mad about it.

It is probably true that General Pleasonton, as the Chief of Cavalry, will be held responsible for not having obtained information of General Lee's escape from Fredericksburg. I have talked with General Pleasonton as recently as the summer of 1887 on this subject, but his explanation would make an interesting chapter in itself and does not pertain to this narrative of facts.

I hope it may not be considered egotistical in me to observe here that I, as a scout and spy at headquarters, was in no way responsible for the lack of information of Lee's departure. I was not Chief of the Secret Service. I cannot resist the temptation to say right here, in connection with my proposed services with Burnside, that, if he had remained in command, I would have been doing signal duty from Geno's house in Fredericksburg, or from some point in the enemy's lines.

If I had gone over the river, as proposed, and had mixed with the Confederates as a spy, I certainly would have secured information of the movement of two of Lee's corps. I should most assuredly have been able to have signaled this information over the river, and then and there General Hooker would have received the credit for having "so wonderfully divined the enemy's movements and thwarted his purposes." The poor, despised Spy would probably have been hung, and his services never been heard of.

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Chapter XXXI

FAREWELL TO FREDERICKSBURG--GENERAL PLEASONTON--CAVALRY FIGHTING AT BRANDY AND ALDIE--LOOKING AFTER STUART'S REBEL CAVALRY--A COUPLE OF CLOSE CALLS--CHASED BY MOSBY'S GUERRILLAS--WITH CUSTER IN FREDERICK, MD--THE DAY BEFORE THE BATTLE, FLIRTING WITH THE GIRLS.

Just how long we of headquarters were on the march from Fredericksburg to Gettysburg is beyond my recollection. We went the longest way around to get there, I think, but we will hurry the reader along the war-path to Gettysburg. As it was Pleasonton's business to find out where Lee was going, we had to cover considerable ground in chasing the devil (Stuart) around the bush.

The first incident or date of importance was the great cavalry battle of Brandy Station, which has been so fully written up that I only need to mention that I was "thar or tharabouts"--in the rear of a haymow.

It was Buford, of my brigade, who should have the credit of manoeuvering the cavalry there. In result, it rather astonished the Confederates. After this encounter, a "Yankee on a horse" was more respected by them. It was the only cavalry battle of the war. We had other little skirmishes on the outposts, of no particular interest to this narrative. One little circumstance remains vividly fixed in my mind in connection with our cavalry skirmish along the rugged, rough Blue Ridge Mountains or Gaps.

At one point--Middleburg, I think--we had a rumpus with some of Imboden's, or Stuart's, men, who were opposed to our looking through the Gap to see what Lee was doing in the Valley.

I had been sent out to scout, and for this mounted secret service a second man was sent along.

The instructions were to get on some untraveled road and reach the top of the mountain, or, at least, some position from which we could use our signal glasses to view the Valley on the other side. It was understood that Lee was moving down or up the Valley, but Pleasonton desired to know just what infantry force was yet in front. To obtain this information, two of us started out alone about three or four o'clock one morning, hoping to get a secure place in the woods on a mountain-top by the light of an early dawn, where we would remain quietly all day, using our glasses from tree-tops, etc., and signal back from the mountain.

Now, bear this in mind, we were to signal back, indicating our position by the old Indian plan of a column of smoke. The signal men about headquarters, seeing the smoke ascend, would level their glasses at the point from which it was supposed to originate. We rode along quietly enough, without meeting anyone, and dressed so that we would have passed ordinarily for the guerrillas that infested the country thereabouts.

I was particular, however, to keep on my uniform jacket and pantaloons, saber, etc., though I disguised them by rents and rags as much as possible.

I knew very well that to have been captured in the disguise of countryman meant being hung as a Spy. The uniform and arms protected me from detection and immediate execution.

We got to a point in the road from which we turned into the woods, leading our horses over the rough growth of underbrush a half mile or so, where we securely tethered them in a little ravine, safe from observation. The poor, tired horses were only too glad of a chance for a little rest and quiet, and on this account we did not fear their making any noise.

Laboriously climbing up the rough mountain on foot with our paraphernalia, we at last reached a point from which we had a clear view of a certain portion of the country on the other side.

We saw nothing at all like an army below us; in fact, the Confederate army had previously passed out of sight at that point, en route to Gettysburg. I turned in leisurely to make our coffee and "smoke," while my chum stood guard with his glass.

After climbing half a dozen trees, to try to get a back view, we at last were compelled to give up, because of the presence of a dense wood below, behind which our headquarters were sunken completely from our sight. As the next best thing to do, we made the signal of "two smokes," which had been previously agreed upon to signify "no enemy in sight."

We remained long enough in the mountain to satisfy ourselves that there was no enemy there and not likely to be, and, as we could not flag back, we decided to smudge the two fires, so that the two smokes would be seen for some time after we should leave on our return.

Finding the horses all right, and feeling so well satisfied that there was no enemy near enough to trouble us, we probably became too careless. On reaching the road, I proposed riding ahead on the road to the summit before returning. My companion, who, by the way, was chief clerk of our Adjutant-General, and, being as big a fool as myself, consented, so we trotted on up the road, feeling perfectly safe. At a point right at the summit, probably, we were paralyzed to see a blockade or rifle-pit across the road.

We abruptly stopped at the sight of this, but receiving no salute of welcome, we sidled to one side of the road to make room for any cannon-balls that might want to pass down. Not stirring anyone, my friend suggested that it had been abandoned. Feeling assured by the deserted-looking appearance of the road, we were ready to advance again when, on looking to one side of the road in a direction we had not thought of scrutinizing, my comrade observed, as he jerked in his horse: "There's a man over by that old barn," pointing to the right, and then in hurried tones: "There come two more around the corner."

I looked in the direction indicated and saw a half-dozen mounted men at the edge of a wood; but the first one wore blue clothes, so I reassuringly said: "Why, it's some of our men who are out here foraging."

"No; I'm ---- if it is. I'm going to get out of range, anyhow;" with that he turned his horse's head. I kept my eye on the men, and saw, to my horror, two of them raise their guns and point at us.

As quickly as if I had been shot, I jerked my horse around and dodged my head on the other side of his neck; the horse turning suddenly as I made this motion, threw me entirely out of the saddle on to my feet on the ground. Just as I turned there were two shots in quick succession.

As we were within very close range, the Rebel cavalrymen seeing me dropped out of the saddle, stopped firing, supposing, of course, I was hit. The funny part of it was, my companion's horse had been so accustomed to going "double" that he could not be made to budge a step until my horse was ready to go along with him.

I had not lost the reins and was soon in the saddle, hanging by the neck of the horse. I spurred him for dear life and led the other horse out of the scrape. It was a close call, and I have not the least doubt but that my fall out of the saddle saved us both, as they supposed we were sure game and didn't follow up until we were galloping down the road, there being a fence between us.

These men were part of the Confederate cavalry that had been on the very mountain below us all the time we had been in the woods above.

We returned to camp at Aldie, reported the matter, and were complimented highly as "two ---- fools."

During these every-day cavalry skirmishes, while en route to Gettysburg, I saw a great many horrible sights in the way of wounded cavalrymen and horses. One of the most disagreeable, to me, was to see them carry a dead soldier across a led horse's back, while a companion walked along side, holding him steady by the heels, precisely as if the man was a bag of potatoes, or corn, going to mill. There was a great deal of this, which seemed to be the only method to get the dead out of those mountains, where ambulances could not travel. It is not pleasant to think or write about; but, dear me, I sometimes feel as if all the horrible truths should be told. In the war-papers we find but little mention of the rough manner of taking care of the wounded, and the disgusting disposition of the dead heroes. As General Sherman says: "I don't want to make any more speeches about the war--it's not a pleasant subject. You know, boys, as well as I do, that war is hell."

I will just observe, in passing, that a chapter on the "ruling passions" and dispositions of men, as they lie in field hospitals, would be a curious study. My observation has always been that the big, blustering fellow, who was often a bully in camp, on getting a little wound, was the fellow to make Rome howl when he got under the Surgeon in a hospital. Quiet, inoffensive boys, probably lying near him with serious and painful wounds, were compelled to hear the booby howl like a school-boy who had stumped his sore toe.

We were at Aldie several days. General Hooker's headquarters were somewhere about Fairfax Court House, some ten or twelve miles distant, or to our rear. Between this cavalry outpost and the Army of the Potomac communication was kept up over one of the best of Virginia pikes. I think it must be a section of the National pike, leading to Winchester and the West; anyway, it is a good and a very straight road, running up and down the hills, so that it seems to be always in sight. I remember the road very distinctly, from an adventure with guerrillas over it.

I had been ordered to take a lot of Quartermaster and Paymaster papers into Washington from the Adjutant-General's headquarters. A headquarters ambulance, driver and two good horses were furnished me to reach the railroad at Fairfax Station. Mr. Emerick, the civil-service Telegrapher who had been at our headquarters, accompanied me on this return to Washington. This was the same operator whom I had described at Aquia Creek, while en route to Old Capitol. He did not recognize me at all, and, of course, I was not anxious to identify myself. Being on the move, there was no telegraphing to do, and he, as an independent civilian, left the army for Washington when he desired to do so, without consulting the Generals in the field.

Right here I will say, as serving to further emphasize the policy of the telegraphs as well as the signals being under military control, that the Army of the Potomac was practically without a word of telegraph communication with Washington from the time they left Fairfax and the railroad until two days after the battle of Gettysburg. There was, of course, some telegraphing from Frederick, Maryland, but it was not reliable, as Stuart was somewhere between the lines.

This is an important fact that should not be forgotten. The civil telegraphers abandoned the army when they saw proper, and this at a time when it was most important of all the War that they should have been in communication with Washington. The Signal Corps, on the other hand, established and operated a line of signals all along the march from Sugar Loaf Mountain to South Mountain, Monterey, Green Castle, Pennsylvania, up to Parnell's Knob, in the Cumberland Valley, Pennsylvania.

The ambulance that brought us to the railroad was ordered to await my return from Washington. I reached Alexandria in the evening, when I was met by my elder brother, Spencer, then in charge of the railroad telegraphs. My brother took me to his boarding-house to spend the night. He, having recently married a wealthy Maryland lady, Miss Katie Hyatt, of Hyattsville, was living in considerable style for Alexandria war times. I therefore felt quite uncomfortable in their society, dressed only in my hard-used uniform. When shown to my room, in which was a comfortable, clean bed, I couldn't think of occupying it, so slept on the floor alongside, more comfortably than if I had been between the clean sheets.

The next day I delivered my package of papers, muster-rolls, pay-rolls and a whole haversack full of Adjutant-General's papers to the proper officers at the War Department, and started on my return via Alexandria and the railroad to Fairfax.

I found the ambulance waiting for me all right, and we at once started off via Fairfax Court House. Here I found a headquarters horse, and as the ambulance was to be detained at Fairfax for a couple of hours, waiting an escort to convey it out to Aldie, I concluded to ride on out in advance.

It was not a very sensible conclusion, to be sure; but, as I have so often said, I did not have very much sense, and acted usually as the spirit moved me, without thinking about the probable consequences.

I rode along nicely for several miles, passing our infantry and outposts, who were stationed along a little run some distance in advance of Fairfax Court House. Along in the evening, just about sunset, I reached a hill-top, from which I could see the road straight ahead over a valley and thence up another hill. The road on the other hill ahead of me was cut through a dense wood, such as is usually found on these hills.

I discovered something ahead, apparently standing in the road on the top of the further hill, but paid little attention to it, supposing it was merely a wagon-train stopping for a feed or going into camp for the night. I rode on down the hill carelessly, getting almost out of sight of the hill-top beyond while in the valley below.

Seeing considerable smoke ahead, I was confirmed in my first impression that it was a wagon-train camp just lighting their camp-fires.

On coming closer, I observed a great deal of bustle around the wagons, but, as that was nothing unusual among a lot of teamsters and mules, I paid but little attention to it, and jogged along on my horse, singing to myself the popular song of those days, "Gay and Happy."

But when I came in full view, and so close that I could see a wagon on fire, I began to get suddenly interested. Men were flying around at a lively rate, as I supposed putting out the fire. I didn't exactly like the looks of the thing, and determined, in my own mind, to reconnoiter and advance slowly. Discovering a little, old house in the edge of a clearing to the side of the road, a short distance from the scene I have described, I rode into the little yard, and called to a woman who was holding a baby in her arms: "Who are those men up the road?"

"Soldiers, I reckon, sir."

"Yes, I know; but what soldiers?"

"Colonel Mosby's soldiers, I reckon, sir."

That was enough. I had a package of reports and papers and some private letters in my pocket, to deliver to Pleasonton and other officers about headquarters. Feeling sure of my belt, pulling my cap down tight over my face, I took a short grip on the reins.

"What are they doing up there?"

"They done captured that wagon-train, sir; and I reckon they will burn the wagons when they get the horses away."

I turned my horse back to the main road, feeling a little nervous, but determined to run for my life.

The moment I got into the road, and without looking up at the burning wagons, I turned my horse's head back and put spurs deeply into his flanks. I had not made five jumps before I heard the cracks of at least a dozen rifles. This only nerved me to more desperate lashings with spurs, leaning forward to the horse's mane as I thrust the spurs into him at every jump. They came after me, yelling like a band of Comanche Indians; but I had a good start, and their guns were empty.

It was a good race for about three miles. I won, and saved my neck again. As I reached the picket-lines that I had passed, I reported to the officer in command that guerrillas were burning our train, but this fellow--a Colonel--refused to cross his men over the run to help to save them.

I rode on back toward Fairfax and met some officers of Hooker's Staff, giving them my adventure. While I was talking to them, we heard sounds as if a distant blast was going off. Looking ahead over the straight road, in the direction whence I had retreated, we saw a dense cloud of white smoke, like a fog-bank, rise over the tops of the trees. Hooker's aide said:

"Well, those fellows will get badly fooled if they are burning that ammunition train."

That was it. They hurried back to Fairfax, and, there being no other cavalry available, Hooker sent out his bodyguard--Rush Lancers--whom I piloted back to the hill-top. When we got near, one or two wagons were yet unburned, but as they were surrounded by the debris of the explosion, we were afraid to go near, lest another wagon-load of ammunition would go off.

I have read Mark Twain's old joke regarding his bravery, in being in the army where cannon-balls and bullets were thickest--right where whole wagon-loads of ammunition were going right past him--but after this experience with a wagon-train, I'm willing to admit this as about as dangerous as anything in an army.

I saved my papers, my life, and got back to Aldie and headquarters that night under the escort of Hooker's bodyguard--or "turkey drivers," as we called them.

It was Pleasonton's cavalry scouts that definitely ascertained that Lee had crossed the Potomac into Maryland. We of the headquarters moved rapidly from Aldie, crossing the Potomac at some point near Leesburg. I think it was the Sunday preceding the contact with Lee that headquarters spent in Frederick, Maryland. We were comfortably quartered at the City Hotel, on a main street of that old town. It was one of the old-fashioned country taverns, with a big yard or court in the rear, for the accommodation of the country teams that visited the city on market days. On this particular Sunday the stables were filled with the horses of the Headquarters Staff, while the yard was crowded with ambulances, baggage-wagons, commissary supplies, etc.

Custer was with us in Frederick all of that Sunday, and spent most of his time at the big parlor window up-stairs flirting with a couple of quite young girls who lived opposite the hotel. The people usually lived above their stores in the town, and I remember very distinctly the name on the sign was spelled "Schley"; so, if there were one or two Misses Schley in Frederick in 1863, their children will have the testimony of a very-much-interested eye-witness that their mothers were beautiful ladies, who so attracted the handsome General Custer that he almost forgot all about his cavalry pickets who were on the South Mountain hunting Stuart's lost cavalry. In those days Custer wore his hair long; it was quite curly, and touched the blue velvet boyish-looking jacket which he always wore; this, with the long, loose ends of the invariable red necktie, gave the cavalry hero a very picturesque appearance, especially when he dashed along on his horse with all the Staff and orderlies spurring after him in the dust. As I remember, we of the cavalry were after J. E. B. Stuart. No one seemed to know where he was; even General Lee was at that time in entire ignorance of Stuart's whereabouts.

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Chapter XXXII

SENT TO FIND GENERAL BUFORD--A HASTY RIDE--THE BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG--CEMETERY RIDGE--GENERAL DOUBLEDAY--GENERAL HANCOCK--THE SECOND DAY OF THE BATTLE.

It was the Rebel Scout, Harrison, who gave to General Lee the first information about the close pursuit of Hooker. This one faithful tramp Rebel soldier carried on foot to Lee and Longstreet at Chambersburg the important intelligence that Hooker had crossed the Potomac, and General Lee, on the report of this single scout, in whom he had implicit confidence, issued orders at once recalling his forces from the front at Harrisburg, and concentrating his entire strength at Gettysburg. I mention this fact, because it is the only instance on official record of a great General giving credit to his Scout or Spy for important secret service.

This solitary Scout succeeded in doing for General Lee alone what was expected of Stuart's large cavalry force, and which they failed to accomplish.

I was sent out from Frederick with orders to find General Buford, who commanded the Cavalry Division in the advance. It was expected that I would be of service in military signaling, and especially in opening up communication with Washington and Baltimore by wire. This was my special duty, and when we ran into a country where there were telegraph wires, I became quite an important fellow; all the Generals being so anxious to get or send news, they cheerfully afforded me all the detail of soldiers I could use to help me.

I found Buford, but when I got to him he was so busy out on the hill, on the morning of July 1st, that he didn't have any time to talk to me. The night before the battle I spent with some of Buford's headquarters men near a town called, I think, Middletown or Middleburg, Maryland. It being very late when I got up to them, I turned my horse into a little stable, or barn, belonging to the house at which the boys had quartered themselves. Headquarters usually selected a good, hospitable-looking house for their temporary quarters, you know.

Thoroughly tired out with my hard day's ride in the sun, while hunting Buford all over that part of the country, I lay down in the haymow of the stable, and was soon sound asleep, and wholly oblivious to all surroundings. I think that I must have had two sleeps that night, instead of one long one. Probably it was on account of my secluded position that I was not awakened until late the following morning, and then it was by Buford's first guns at Gettysburg. Rubbing my eyes open, I saw, with astonishment, that the bright sun was peeping through the cracks of the old barn.

The sound of each distant gun served to hasten my hay-loft toilet, and sliding down out of the haymow as quickly as a fireman gets down his pole, I had the saddle on the horse and was ready to travel, in either direction, in as short a time as the fire-engines get their rigs ready when an alarm is sounded. In my hurry I did not take time to count out an exact dozen of eggs from a nest in the manger, from which my sudden appearance had scared the old hen. She expressed her surprise and indignation in a great deal of noise, but I took no notice of her protests, and slipped, with a dexterity that only a cavalryman of the Army of the Potomac had acquired, the whole lot into my haversack, nest-egg and all, and hastily threw it over my shoulder.

Getting outside, I was further surprised to discover that the place had seemingly been abandoned in the night, not only by headquarters, but by the occupants of the house. There was not a soul to be seen, and without being exactly sure whether I was within the enemy's lines or our own, I mounted and hastily spurred on toward the sound of the guns, that was becoming more frequent.

I only knew that I was on Pennsylvania soil, my native State, and within a day's ride from my birthplace, and hoped that I should find myself among friends. There was certainly enemies where the firing was going on. I had not gone far until I met a farmer's wagon loaded, apparently, with every member of his family, and, no doubt, all their worldly goods that they could pile into it.

When I stopped them to ask about the racket down the road, all of them began to talk at once, in broken Pennsylvania Dutch, about "the war down below town." I learned further from some scared natives and some stragglers in blue, that were scurrying along the road, and were becoming thicker the nearer I got, as they put it, "The Rebels are fighting with our men on the other side of town."

That was enough for me. I was young and active, and, as a Pennsylvania boy, I was most anxious to participate in some way in fights that were to take place in my own State. I made that old horse dash along the road to the battlefield of Gettysburg, for about four miles that morning, in a way that would have put to shame General Sheridan's ride down the Valley. If my celebrated ride could have been done up in poetry and set to music, it would, as a parody on Sheridan's ride, go down into the literature of the century after the style of John Gilpin's famous ride at the sound of artillery. I'd give the old nag the spurs and make him jump ahead as if the cannon-balls were after instead of ahead of us.

That beautiful morning of July 1st, as I rode along that old pike, the one fear uppermost in my mind was that the battle of Gettysburg would be all over before I could get there. I felt that I should never be able to meet my Pennsylvania friends again if it should unfortunately happen that Buford would drive the Rebels out of the State without my assistance. That's what made me in such a hurry.

I was delayed a little on the road by an accident. I had noticed, while tearing along, that there was an awful bad air in that part of the country, but I had, as a soldier, become accustomed to bad smells hovering about an army in Virginia, that I didn't take much account of it--rather satisfying myself with the reflection that the smell simply indicated the presence of the Rebel Army in the neighborhood. But it became so oppressive that I checked up my Mad-Anthony-Wayne gait long enough to look around me. It was the eggs in my haversack. In my excitement, I had forgotten all about them, and, of course, every time my horse galloped the haversack, being strung loose to my saddle, tried to keep time, but couldn't always do it, with the result of beating the eggs up into a soft mess, and mixing shell-dry coffee, hard tack and cold meat into a fancy omelette.

When I discovered the horrible condition of things, the eggs were dripping down my horse's flanks, and when the horse stood still the odor wafted itself around me. I got one good whiff and then cut the thing loose, boldly sacrificing my expected breakfast of eggs and also all the good coffee and other nice things my kit was packed with. I have always believed that there must have been more than one bad egg in the dozen. In writing up this ride in poetry, after Buchanan's Sheridan, this incident should not be made too prominent. I record it simply as one of the necessary ingredients of a true story.

I had a double incentive after this to hurry me along; the awful stench clung to the flanks of my horse and I tried to ride him out of the range of it. When I reached the top of the hill, now so widely known as Cemetery Ridge, on the morning of July 1st, it was as quiet and restful as the old graveyard probably is this July 1st, 1889. Beyond the town, to the west, which was visible from this point, were to be seen in the air over the tops of the trees the too-familiar little curls or puffs of white, steamy-looking smoke, that I knew were from exploding shells. For the moment there seemed to be a lull in the proceedings--only an occasional gun and the more frequent sharp, hammer-like sound of infantry firing on a skirmish line.

But I'm not going to attempt a description of the battle of Gettysburg; that has already been done too thoroughly and well. I'll tell only what I saw that day, in as few words as I can put it.

When I rode through the town the people were gathered in groups in the street; ladies were at the windows talking in a whining, half-crying way to other nervous neighbors, who were, perhaps, at an up-stairs window, praying at intervals, or asking in a beseeching way, "What is to become of us all?" During all this time the soldiers inside of the town, in a sullen, quiet, business way, peculiar to old coffee-coolers, were moving about, indifferently, amidst the excitement that must have struck the inhabitants as being very unconcerned for soldiers.

I remembered one fellow in blue loitering where I had halted for a drink, while the lady of the house was kindly dishing out glasses of water. She appealed to him for something encouraging or hopeful. He looked up at her, and then, turning around in the direction of the occasional musketry, as if he had just discovered that there was something going on, assured her in an easy-going way: "Oh, that's all right; that's only a little squabble. Our army isn't out there."

I forged ahead straight out of the Chambersburg Road, galloped my horse up the hill and on past the Seminary, and might have gone a little too far on that line if I hadn't been summarily stopped by an officer, who was standing close behind the fence beside the road.

"Where in ---- are you going?" was the polite salutation.

When I explained that I was a Staff orderly from headquarters hunting General Buford, he observed: "Well, you go out that road any further and you will find some Rebel General."

Another officer, more polite and obliging, kindly volunteered the information, "Buford's cavalry were in those woods this morning," pointing to a grove to the left.

It was further explained that the fence was down a little distance up the road. I made a break for the gap, and got safely out of the now-deserted highway, and ran in behind the big stone barn and dismounted, when I discovered that I was right at the front of our lines. Before me, stretched along the ground at full length, was a brigade of infantry, extending to the grove on the left. This was the advance of our line of battle, under Doubleday. I wanted very much to get into that grove, to communicate with headquarters, but I had run myself, precipitately, into a trap, and couldn't get out without the risk of being shot.

It was safe enough, for the time being, while behind the old stone barn, but there was that awful gap of a quarter of a mile between it and the grove. I dismounted, went inside of the barn, and there witnessed such a scene as can best be described by a reference to a first visit to an insane asylum. It seemed to me that from every corner, crevice and stall of the dark old basement of the barn I saw glaring at me the wild eyes of maniacs. In a word, the barn was full of skulkers--of cowards, who no doubt looked upon me as the leader of a detail to drive them out into their ranks in the front.

I was worse frightened by those fellows than by the line of battle of the Rebels in the front, and, hurrying out of the place, got on my horse and hauled down my cap, felt for the security of my belt, and was making ready for a dash over the Gap, when my attention was attracted by some officer's loud voice, who, in a whining, half-crying tone, was haranguing his men, who were lying down in his front. I shall never forget the expression on the faces of those poor fellows as they would look up at their officer and glance longingly to the rear, and alternately gaze with a frightened, serious look toward the Rebel lines, their pale, blanched faces looking the whiter through the dirt and smoke of battle, that was on them like a war-paint.

In this connection I have a conundrum for the Chaplain: How is the indisputable fact to be accounted for, or reconciled, that the same men in line of battle, facing death, will, in one and the same moment, be praying and cursing, as I heard them in this line--"God have mercy on us," and after the first volley, or when a charge was ordered, the prayer, almost in the same breath, turned to the most terrible oaths--"God damn your souls."

I went up to the Colonel and reported the discovery of the men in the barn. To my surprise, he only said: "Oh, that's nothing; let them alone."

I have looked carefully into all the accounts of the different battles for some mention of the cowards and skulkers, but, somehow, this part of the battle is not brought to the attention of the reading public nowadays, though it is not denied that these form quite a large percentage in each army.

It was imperative that I should obey orders and report to General Buford.

I had found him all right, but there remained between us the little space that I must cross. I screwed up my courage to the sticking point, and, with my head bent low, I made the run safely into the grove, where I found General Buford sitting quietly on his horse, accompanied by one or two of his Staff. He did not seem to have a happy or satisfied look, and I judged at once, from his uneasy manner, that something was going wrong. I soon found out. General Reynolds was lying by the two little elms along side of the fence, dying or dead. This was what put so serious and sorrowful an expression on the faces of all the officers just then. A Rebel sharpshooter from that stone barn had killed the best General the Army of the Potomac contained--he whom we all knew at headquarters should have been its Commander-in-Chief.

Every moment we staid in the grove was a holy terror to me; it seemed as if the whole Rebel artillery had discovered that it was headquarters, and were concentrating their shells into it. They would go crashing through the tree-tops, shrieking and tearing through the branches of the trees as we used to throw clubs into apple trees to knock down the fruit. General Buford, noticing my uneasiness as I'd glance up through the trees, as if expecting to see the apples fall, quietly observed to me: "They have not got the range yet." He said this in a tone indicating that he was only waiting till they did get it, before he should leave.

My horse became awfully nervous, to say nothing of myself, and I didn't feel that I wanted the Rebel artillery to hunt their range with me for a target.

I became suddenly solicitous about the expediency of looking after some signal and telegraph business in the town, a mile or so to the rear, and safely "beyond range."

So, riding up to the General, saluting in the Regular Army style, bowing my head low as a shell went over, I meekly suggested going back to town to see if there were any telegraph operators to be found.

"All right," said the General, significantly, "We will all be back there soon."

Turning my horse's head to the rear, I didn't hesitate so long about starting as I had for the barn, but boldly made a dash to the rear over a lot of old fields that lay between the grove and the Seminary.

I thought it about a mile distant at that time, and I have since visited the ground and was surprised to find it so short a distance; but I covered it so quickly then that some allowance may be made for the miscalculation.

I don't believe any horse-race jockey ever got over the same amount of the earth any quicker than I did that last quarter on the home stretch--I had got "in range," and was in a hurry to get out.

This was a piece of open ground, where it seemed all the shells that passed through the trees in the grove stopped and ploughed into the earth, and scattered the dirt or exploded in the air and scattered the pieces of iron.

I felt for the minute and a half that I was out from under the imaginary protection of the trees, that the whole Rebel Army were after me. Really I was so badly rattled that I did not know whether I was on a horse or afoot. Once behind the big brick Seminary Building, I felt it safe enough to dismount, cool off myself and the horse, and repair damages.

Discovering that both the horse and myself were unharmed, and being anxious to see how the rest of them out that way were getting along, I availed myself of my privilege as a signal man on the Staff, and climbed the stairs to the top of the building, getting out on the cupola.

There were several Generals up there. They were somewhat excited, and talking together in an earnest manner about something that was going on in another part of the field.

They left the cupola as if they were in a hurry. So did I, without stopping to examine the outlook very closely. There was plenty to be seen--it was quite a moving panorama of blue and gray, and far more realistic from that platform than the cyclorama I have viewed from similar elevations in the center of the battle scenes they depict.

I noticed from the cupola that there was some excitement or stir to the right of the town. I had not thought of there being any Rebels, except those I had seen immediately in our front. As I had seen enough of this part of the field, I concluded to go over to the right and see what I could do to save the day there.

I went down the steps, three or four at a jump, and was on my horse before any of the Generals, who had preceded me.

I rode out toward the right as far as it was expedient for a horse to go.

In 1863 there was a railroad embankment, or fill, along that edge of the town. Behind this I dismounted and fastened my horse to a fence, discreetly advanced as dismounted cavalry to reconnoiter, and, if possible, learn what all the fuss over here was about. I soon found out--one good look was enough. There was another barn out that road, and from behind it, or from all corners, puffs of white smoke were to be seen at frequent intervals. Beyond this there were other lines of this same white smoke; and, before I knew exactly what was going on, there came suddenly from another direction that awful sharp din of volleys of musketry. Dear me, how sharp and how sudden the noise of musketry--it rings to-day in my ear, after a lapse of twenty-five years, as distinctly as it were but yesterday. I frequently visit Gettysburg--the place has a strange fascination for me. As I walk alone over the very ground I am trying to tell about here, I recall every incident, and wonder, and wonder, in the strange quiet of the old town, where all the 200,000 are to-day!

"No marshalling troops, no bivouac song, No banner to gleam and wave; But, Oh these battles! they last so long-- From boyhood to the grave."

After this outbreak, which we all knew preceded a charge, there came the usual confusion, accompanied by the yells and indescribable ugly sounds, the echo of which seems to chill one's blood, even now.

In this confusion and rush, I nearly lost my horse; he had torn loose from his fastenings, in the jam and tear of artillery, breaking to the rear along the road; he was retreating in disorder among the boys of the Eleventh Corps. When I caught up with him and mounted again, there was a crowd of infantrymen jamming along the road. It is a fact that a "doboy," as we cavalrymen called the infantry, instinctively hates a cavalryman of his own army as much as he does that of the enemy, so that, in my isolated predicament, in trying to navigate my horse along a road filled with excited Germans, with bayonets on their guns, I had, literally, a hard road to travel.

I intended to go back to the Seminary, which I had recently left, thinking it the best place to get a good view of the field. I was steering my horse in that direction, down the main street of the town, when I discovered that, seemingly, everybody was coming away from there.

It looked as if the show was over and the crowd was rushing along the streets, as if anxious to catch the first car, or the last train.

I did not realize that it was a retreat until I saw riding up the road, in a direction away from the Seminary, a cavalcade, which I knew to be a General and Staff.

It was General Doubleday. The handsome General, erect and dignified at the head of his Staff, was riding alone with a bearing very much as I have witnessed other Generals on the fancy parades at the head of the column of play soldiers.

Except for an angry flush on his face, and evidently in a bad humor about something that had gone wrong, he was as cool as I have seen him since on ordinary occasions.

On looking through the dusty and crowded streets that dreadful afternoon toward the Seminary, which I had so recently left some distance inside of our lines, I was astonished beyond measure to see that a battery was right in the middle of the road firing like all nation toward us. It has always remained one of the great surprises of my life to understand how that Rebel battery could possibly have gotten through our army so suddenly and have been firing shells down the road into our retreating column from our hill, when I thought, according to the tactics, it ought to have been two or three miles out of the road on their own hill. The frequent shots did not hasten General Doubleday's pace a particle; he kept on giving his orders in a sullen, ill-natured tone, but walked his horse as slowly as if heading a funeral procession.

My young heart was distressed to see that our men were beginning to pour into the main street from every direction--all were eagerly making for the main road through town to Cemetery Hill.

It was very much as if a church, or theatre, had been dismissed in a panic; the people who were in the side aisles were rushing down on the crowds in the main entrance, so that everything became blocked by the confusion worse confounded.

The ladies of the town, from almost every house and window, were imploring the men to give them some explanation of the movement, the very suddenness and excitement of which bordered on a panic.

As a Pennsylvania boy, I felt that it was disgraceful to abandon one of our own towns to Rebel invaders, and with such thoughts burning within me, and fired by the excitement of the hour, remembering that in my ride into the town that morning I had passed Slocum's (Twelfth) Corps only a little way out, I rode up, facing the stately Doubleday, and, after saluting, said:

"General, I passed General Slocum only a little way out the road." The General, without halting his slow movement, gruffly said:

"Where is Slocum?"

"Why, out the road a little piece."

"When did you see him?"

"This morning."

Just then a shell went over the top of a house, exploded on the roof, making a most infernal noise, which scared all the horses, and in the mix-up, as I was facing the General, my horse could not march backwards, I became tangled up with him, and impeded for a moment his progress. Turning to me, with a savage expression, he said:

"Get out of my way, ---- you. We all know where Slocum was this morning. Where is Slocum now? Who in ---- are you, anyhow?"

I didn't insist on continuing the conversation with General Doubleday at the time; but I have had the pleasure of hearing from this grand old man, since the publication of this day's experience.

When I saw so indisputably that everybody else was going to leave town, I concluded that I might as well go too, and I stood not on the order of my going, but went at once.

On the occasion of President Cleveland's visit to Gettysburg, it was my pleasure, as well as my business as a newspaper man, to accompany that party. I heard then one of the old residents--one of the "reliable old liars"--tell a distinguished party that the Rebel band played "Dixie" on the square of the town at 1 P. M. on that day.

I want to say that is not true. There was lots of music at 1 P. M., but there were no bands playing that day that I ever heard of. It was late in the afternoon when we had our parade through the streets of Gettysburg to the music of booming cannon, screeching shell, and the sharp notes of musketry.

This music was in the air all around us, accompanied by the groans and cries of the wounded and dying men, who were being piled into the court house and churches of the old burg.

I managed to crowd my frenzied horse through the dense mass of soldiers, wagons, etc., who were surging up the main street toward Cemetery Hill.

I got there just as soon as I could, too.

On reaching the brow of the hill, I was gratified and surprised to see General Howard sitting on his horse, quite alone, in the lot to the right of the cemetery gate, or across the road from it.

All of this time, the men of the Eleventh Corps, which, in the retreat led the way, had been coming steadily up the hill from town and kept on going down over the hill on the other side, like so many sheep that follow a leader blindly over a fence.

It never occurred to me that there would be any halt then, and I assert here, bluntly, my opinion, as being unprejudiced and based solely on the events as they actually occurred to me at that day, that General Howard had not, at that hour, any other expectation than to retreat further back. He certainly had not made any effort whatever to stop the rushing to the rear of his men of the Eleventh Corps. They not only swarmed up the one road, but came straggling through the by-ways and fields, skipping over the stone fence, and, unmolested, kept going on farther back, as if it were a matter of course.

I stopped on the side of the road, near General Howard that I might look around from this elevation.

To my consternation, I discovered, from the musketry and confusion, that the Rebels were going it lively over toward our extreme right, in the direction of what is now known as Culp's Hill.

I was satisfied that the Rebels would get around to the road I had come down on, and capture the entire force then at Gettysburg.

For obvious reasons, I did not intend to be made prisoner, if my horse's legs could keep me out of the grip of the encircling Rebs.

While I was making my way back to the road I ran against General Hancock, who had just come up in search of Howard. Hancock--brilliant, dashing, glorious Hancock--rode across the way to Howard, who had been standing silently biting his finger-nails, evidently as much rattled as it was possible for a good soldier to be.

"Howard," said Hancock, in a voice and with an emphasis that attracted the attention of the crowd that had gathered there, "let's get them behind that stone fence; they can never get us out of that."

Howard looked surprised, and said something in a low voice, trembling with excitement, which I took to be an acquiescence with Hancock's suggestion. There were some other words between them that were not heard, but we all knew that Hancock, from his fiery, almost blustering manner, was urging Howard to the importance of this step. Hancock's very presence seemed to inspire the men, who had now begun to gather on the hill in great crowds, attracted by the excitable manner of the General.

Just then Doubleday reached this point. Hancock, upon seeing this fighting General, abruptly leaving Howard, turned to Doubleday and began to explain with excited gestures the importance of securing this position. Doubleday, at a glance, seemed to take in the importance of this step. He and Hancock talked together for a moment only, when Hancock, without again referring to Howard (who still sat silently in his saddle, looking over toward Culp's Hill, his back now turned to the crowd), said to Doubleday:

"Now, you put your men behind that fence, and don't let another man go back of it." Then, turning to the Staff of assembled officers that were there, he said: "Don't allow another ---- man to go over that hill; drive them all up behind that stone wall."

Some one asked if they--the Staff--should use force indiscriminately. Doubleday retorted, violently: "Yes; shoot any ---- man that refuses to obey."

Some officer whom I can not locate turned to all of us, took command, and ordered every officer and soldier to draw his pistol and saber and prevent another man from going down the hill. For the first and only time during the four years of the war I used a saber on our own men of the Eleventh Corps. No more men went back, thanks to Hancock. Howard and Hancock, standing together, were having some further animated conversation. I was close enough to hear only these words, spoken petulantly by Howard in answer to something that had been said to him: "Hancock, you cannot command here to-day."

Hancock rode over to Doubleday; they exchanged a few words in private, heated talk; Doubleday took charge, and it was he who executed Hancock's commands and saved the position. Howard received the credit and the thanks of Congress for having selected this position, but I assert here, as if it were a dying statement and my hopes of eternity hung on it, that Howard did not, until Hancock forced him to act, take any steps to hold the place.

Hancock's arrival upon the field, in obedience to General Meade's command, turned defeat into victory. His imposing presence, together with the admirable disposition of the First and Eleventh Corps and Buford's Cavalry, created in General Lee's mind the impression that we had been reinforced. In proof of this fact I will refer to the official reports of General Lee, lately published, in which he states that he had "restrained pursuit" because of the belief that we had been reinforced.

Much has been written upon the subject of this battle of Gettysburg, but this point has been little touched upon by any writer who is a wholly disinterested witness. My testimony is not of a regimental kind, for I am simply trying to tell of my own personal observation and experience. As a Headquarters-Staff man, I went everywhere I considered it safe to go. I only knew such regiments as contained Pennsylvania friends, and especially those of the Pennsylvania Reserves, while I knew certain other commands in the Second and Fifth Corps. I generally knew where to find them when we were in camp, but would only meet them on the march accidentally.

There was one little incident that occurred, however, in the presence of Hancock, Howard, Doubleday, and the crowd which had gathered around them on Cemetery Hill, that some of the survivors who may read this article will remember, and may thereby establish the identity of the men or regiments which were "going up the hill and down again." After it had been decided by Hancock and Doubleday to try and stop the rout of the Eleventh Corps, Howard "caught on," as we say nowadays, but only awakened to the importance of holding the place after Hancock had bulldozed him into it. One big, tall fellow, with side-whiskers (I give his description because I do not know his name or regiment), who was carrying the regimental colors, rolled up, stalked over to where Howard was spurring his horse around at a lively waltz, issuing his orders to everybody who would carry into effect Hancock's suggestions.

This Color-Sergeant, in a wild and dramatic way, stood beside Howard's frisky horse and made his little speech, which was listened to with more apparent deference than had been accorded to Hancock. I am not conscious of having any personal feeling or prejudice against General Howard--in fact, I am politically the other way--but think, as a chronicler of events, that I can be perfectly fair now in my estimation of men and events which occurred twenty-five years ago. This Color-Sergeant and Howard had a little scene up on the hill to which almost everybody else was oblivious, having as much as they could attend to at the time themselves. But I heard the Sergeant say, in quite a loud voice: "I'll take the flag down there," pointing to the stone wall just below, "if these men will stand by me." Howard replied in a low voice, tremulous with excitement, at which the color-bearer and a few men started down toward the stone wall, which was the last I ever saw or heard of them, although I have little doubt, if this man lived through the battle, he was favorably mentioned in Howard's report, and got his commission, as it was a brave act on the part of the color-bearer; but I can't help but think it would have looked better (to my eyes at least) if he had stopped with his colors at the wall on his way up, and not have made his little speech for apparent effect.

Perhaps some person will ask why Generals Hancock and Doubleday did not lay claim to the credit of this manoeuver at the time. Probably they did, but of this I know nothing. Howard was Hancock's senior, and, as such, was entitled to the command during Meade's absence. But through some hocuspocus Howard received the vote of thanks by Congress for doing that which he did not do, and so the matter stands to-day.

Hancock was a noble-looking soldier. There was something in his appearance during a fight, while on his large horse, that was wonderfully impressive. Sheridan's ride up the Valley, in which his presence is credited with turning a disastrous defeat into a victory, was no more important in its results, in my estimation, than Hancock's dashing and well-timed arrival on Cemetery Hill on the afternoon of the first day of Gettysburg. There can be little doubt but that his prompt action secured the position, and his very presence, while talking with Howard, served to check the fugitives who were passing over the hill in droves.

It may also be asked why I bring this subject up at this late date, and after Hancock's death? For years I have avoided all talk on the subject of army experience. I would have sooner asked Hancock to take a drink in a public-bar-room than to have broached this matter to him. He was not the sort of a man who invited everybody's opinion. He always impressed me, and I was near him often, with the feeling that he was the ideal Regular soldier, and could only be approached through official channels. It was probably to this disposition, to leave everything to official reports, that can be attributed the fact that he did not always obtain through the newspapers the credit to which he was clearly entitled.

I therefore contend that Hancock is the hero of Gettysburg, not only of the third, but of the first day; and had he been in supreme command, and remained unharmed, General Lee would not have gotten away so easily; the war might have ended a year sooner than it did, and more than likely Gettysburg would have been in history what Appomattox now is, while Grant would have equally divided honors with Hancock. I sometimes think that, like a great many other good Generals in the East, Hancock became soured by the promotion of Grant's Western men to the best position in the Army of the Potomac.

Grand old Army of the Potomac! Noble, patient, long-suffering Army of the Potomac. Its greatest battles were fought while Meade and Hancock were subordinates--before Grant came out of the West to lead it to the Wilderness and Cold Harbor.

Everybody on Cemetery Hill did their utmost to check the shattered column, which had been doubled back from the right and the officers and men thrown into confusion; and the few men of the Staff had a hard time to rally these demoralized soldiers, for, as is well known to everybody who has had any connection with the army, a body of men once broken are about as hard to control as is a resistless mountain torrent.

I became so much engaged in this work, personally, that for a while I neglected to look around to see what was happening elsewhere. The men had come up from the town, and all stopped on the hill behind the wall, their guns cocked and lying across the top.

I was seated on my horse by the side of the big arched fancy gate of the old Cemetery, and, before I suspected that the Rebels were near, a minie-ball struck the brick-work of the gate, which I found, upon examination, was but a few feet above my head.

I had turned briskly around in search of some of my recent companions, to tell them that evidently the Rebel sharpshooters had secured places on the roofs, when I was almost paralyzed to discover that they had disappeared--scarcely anybody to be seen, save a lot of infantry, who were hugging the ground all around. Not being under the orders of any particular officer, I was, of course, like "nobody's child," and had to look out for myself. I hurriedly got behind the hill, when, to my consternation, I heard the rapid, sharp, hammer-like firing over on Culp's Hill, which seemed to me to be directly in our rear. It is a geometrical fact that the Rebels were almost in the rear of our position on Cemetery Hill. A glance at a map will explain this. Cemetery Hill projects like the point or promontory of a peninsula out into the sea of the Rebel Army, which was apparently on three sides of it.

The first thing I did was to look around for Hancock, thinking, if he was somewhere about, I would attach myself to him, as a means to get me out safely. But he was nowhere in sight; neither was Doubleday, Howard or any of the big guns I had just left on the hill; and, glancing down the Baltimore road to the rear, I saw such signs of general commotion that it gave me the impression that we were going to be surrounded.

I thought then that Hancock had made an awful big mistake in allowing the men up there to be caught in the rear while lying behind the stone wall looking in the opposite direction. I was not the only one who entertained this opinion at that juncture, by a large majority. But future events proved that Hancock was right and we were all wrong.

I went back over the same old road, along which I had dashed so gallantly in the morning, and did not stop until safely established near General Pleasonton, and so far to the rear that the sound of guns did not disturb my rest that night.

One day of Gettysburg should be enough. It was for me. The battle has been fought over so often in the newspapers that there is scarcely anything new to be said. Of course, my experience was peculiar in this--that I went as I pleased. Regimental history relates only to the observations from one fixed point.

The evening of the first day it looked badly enough to me, and if I had been Commander-in-Chief, I think I should have changed the base to a point a little farther away from the Rebels. I was defeated.

I was on hand bright and early the morning of the second day. I was not in so much of a hurry to save the day as I had been the first day. I rode down the same road I did the morning before, but I went along more cautiously. There was no booming of guns to be heard. Though nearly two hundred thousand men had been gathered there in the night, the surroundings the second morning were decidedly peaceful--unusually quiet--ominously as compared with the first morning and the evening of the first day.

I had slept in the same haymow from which I had been awakened the previous morning.

I came down the road straight toward Cemetery Hill to find headquarters--at least, that is what I started out to reach. I was stopped before I got up the hill, by an order from somebody to "Get out of the road." I got off as directed, and went into a little grove to the left, and almost in the rear of the Cemetery, where I had seen a group of officers on horseback. I do not remember who they were, but, seeing that they did not know any more than I about the "prospect," which was just then the important question, I tied my horse to a tree, that I might reconnoiter on foot, and find out something for myself. I proceeded to climb up the crest of the hill on my hands and knees, with all the humility, respect and caution that I felt was due to the Rebels. I wanted to see them all once more very much, indeed, but I did not care to have any of their sharpshooters discover me first. There were batteries upon batteries, the horses of which were down on the hill to the rear, in care of their riders. The artillerymen were, of course, around their guns, but most of them were hunting places not too much exposed. I did not see the line at first; you know the artillery is always behind, or to the rear of a line of battle, supported by infantry. Bound to see the shape of our advance of that line of battle, I went as far out as the very crest of the hill nearest the Cemetery gate. When I got that far I was paralyzed by another yell, from some unseen quarter, to "Get down, there!" I got down, and in that abject position heard the voice explain, in not very gentle tones, "The sharpshooters are on the tops of those houses." The houses referred to were so close that I could almost count the bricks in the chimney-tops.

There was another curious fellow--an officer--some distance ahead of me, standing behind a tree, looking for all the world as if he was having lots of fun playing hide-and-seek with someone. I concluded to play, too, and crawled up to the base of another tree close beside him. When I got behind the tree, I felt perfectly safe from an attack of the whole Rebel army. I was feeling so secure in this position that I became bold enough to stand to one side, that I might get a good view of our fellows. I saw them lying down or silently moving about behind that old stone wall.

While I was yet intently gazing over the valley in hopes of seeing the Rebels, there was a little "ping" noise near me, a sharp sting on my face, as if some one had thrown a handful of gravel at me. It was only some of the bark of the tree, which had been dusted into my face by a minie-ball.

I got behind the tree. I stayed there, too, standing up against it as stiff as a post, and hugging it as close as its own bark. I was afraid to turn my head either to the left or to the right. I had seen enough, and slid down to the ground and crawled back on all-fours, after the manner of the harlequin on the stage. I found the headquarters, which was located not very far from that spot, but out of reach of any hiding sharpshooters on the house-tops at the upper end of the town.

During all that morning I was about headquarters, trying to find out what in thunder was up; everything was oppressively quiet.

In the early afternoon I sent a note addressed to General Meade into the dingy little old shanty where he had his headquarters. They were having a prolonged caucus. I proposed to send a detail of men to try to open up telegraph communication with Baltimore and Washington. I had discovered that the wires were down at some point on the railroad, and wanted to rebuild the line. In reply to this suggestion, which may be on file some place, as it was a written communication, General Meade sent me out to see General Gregg. This officer, who is a native of Pennsylvania, and at present is residing at Reading, greeted me most courteously, saying: "General Meade directs me to say to you, sir, that he appreciates the importance of securing the telegraph service, and desires you to be prepared to act upon it."

I was at the headquarters later on, when all the Generals who had been attending the Council of War came filing out, with their swords rattling, their faces wearing a determined, if not anxious, expression.

Each of the officers, without uttering a word, but acting as if he had an important business engagement on hand and was behind time at the appointment, quickly mounted their horses, all darting off in different directions.

I took the liberty of propounding a question to General Gregg. I should consider it impertinent, at my present age, for any one to ask me such a question.

But these were war times, which is the apology I now tender to General Gregg publicly. He will get a copy of this book with the author's compliments.

I asked the General, bluntly, if there "was anything up." He answered by significantly pointing over his shoulder to General Meade, who was at the moment in big boots, strutting off to his horse, which an orderly held near the assembled Staff.

"It looks as if something was up, don't it?"

I thought it did;--and as everybody else was mounting their horses I followed the example; that is, I followed General Meade, who was my example, over toward what was then the front of the Round Tops or Sickles' salient.

I can not go into Sickles' fight at Gettysburg. I know nothing more about it than has been published, except the impression that I gathered at the headquarters, and throughout the army at the time, in the days that immediately followed, which in effect was, that General Sickles had played a big card in hopes of accomplishing something on his own account that would give him the command of the Army of the Potomac. As all know, it was a continual fight between our Generals as to who should be the Chief. Sickles lost his opportunity and his leg at the same time. It was the common talk then, and few cared to dispute it some years ago, when Meade and Hancock were yet alive, that, if Sickles had not lost his leg, he would have lost his commission.

I was at Gettysburg with General Sickles in July, 1886 and 1888, and interviewed him for the press on this subject. He showed considerable feeling over the hostile attitude of other distinguished officers toward his absurd claim of having won the battle of Gettysburg, by being defeated the second day.

At the time, it looked to me like another first day, and, as I was anxious to be on the safe side, I retired to the valley between the Round Tops.

While riding out toward the rear, from between the Round Tops, I met a double line of battle slowly advancing. It was so long a line that I could not see either end of it through the undergrowth. In endeavoring to find a break, or hole, to get through, I asked some of the officers what troops these were, and my recollection is they were the Pennsylvania Reserves. I have often wondered since why some mention is not made of this reserve being on hand there to receive Longstreet if he had come through Sickles.

The appalling fear before me, as I faced those fellows advancing, with their guns loaded and bayonets fixed, pointing at my horse's breast, was that they wouldn't let me through, but might drive me ahead of them. I was not ambitious to lead them down through that valley, where so much noise was being made by Rebel yells and musketry.

I will never forget that double row of dirty faces. They had been on a forced march all day, perhaps, to reach the field. The dust of the roads had adhered to their perspiring faces, presenting a war-paint effect that was ludicrous even at so serious a time.

"How does a man feel in battle?" is a question often asked, or "Were you frightened the first time?" My answer is: "Yes, and every other time." I never heard a shell screech, or a minie-ball whistle or whiz, that I wished, with all my soul, that I had not come. I was scared when I went in the first and the last battle.

At the end of every fight I felt, somehow, as if the war was a failure, and we might as well go home, we so seldom had the satisfaction of seeing the Rebels run.

A majority of people have formed an idea that a battle is a continuous uproar, from daylight until dark, or during all of the day on which it occurs. As a matter of fact, the real fight is soon over, one way or another; that is, the actual contest of the larger bodies ends about as suddenly as a collision on a railroad.

It is a long time beginning; may be the picket-firing of the night previous is the first indication; then will come the more frequent clattering from the skirmish-line, with an occasional shot from a battery; perhaps it ends with this.

I have nearly always noticed that the officers and men thought it had ended, and were only suddenly awakened to the fact that it had not, by a tremendous boom from some battery, that would nearly always be discovered to be at some point they did not expect a hostile shot to come from.

It may not be an agreeable thing to print, but it has been my experience in battle, that it was always the unexpected that happened to our officers.

The first time I was under fire, I happened to be near a battery, and became so much excited by the booming of the guns, and the action of the men and officers, that I did not realize my danger.

A battery pounding shot into an enemy is the most inspiriting music a soldier can hear. Of course, you can not tell whether the shot hit any one or not, as they go so far, but you instinctively feel, from the big noise and fussy kick the thing makes every time it is fired, that something must get hurt at the other end.

As a rule, it is not the artillery that does the damage; the shells most frequently go entirely over the heads of a line of battle and drop far to the rear, where they stampede the mules about the wagon-trains and scare the skulkers.

The wounds are not always received at the front. It is the nasty little bullets that do the greater damage to the men in line.

On this occasion I felt, from the way this battery had been pounding into the woods, a mile or so away, that they had killed everybody over there, so I boldly advanced on my horse to the front or skirmish-line. On my way out, I saw coming toward me two fellows carrying, or rather supporting, a third between them; getting closer, I discovered that the man they were carrying had his leg off; indeed, it seemed as if his whole lower body had been torn off at the hip, leaving his bleeding flesh hanging in shreds to his light-blue pantaloons.

I naturally stopped when they got nearer, when I discovered, to my horror, that the poor man's bowels were actually trailing on the ground. He was yet alive; his eyes were fixed upon me in a sorrowful, longing way that I shall never, never get out of my mind.

While paralyzed by this sight, I was so sick that I almost fell off my horse, by seeing one of the men accidentally tread on his bowels, which served to draw more of his entrails from his torn and bleeding body. The poor fellow was then past all pain. I hurried forward to get away from the horrible sight, only to come on a boy in blue, who was lying flat on his face, as if he had been literally biting the dust, all choked up--dead.

You will notice in all the pictures of battles that the dying are usually represented as throwing up their hands and falling backward gracefully.

As a matter of fact, the men usually fall forward, unless they are struck by a missile so large that its weight will carry them backward by the momentum. I have observed that a wounded man's head drops forward; this, I presume, has a tendency to cause the body to fall forward with the weight of the head; and the fact that the dead, who die on the field, are nearly always found with their faces down, burrowed, has created the expression, "biting the dust."

As it generally rains after a battle, I have noticed the wounded and dying nearly always crawl to a pool of water, and their dead faces are often found as if they had died in an effort to wet their parched tongues.

Every person I have talked with for five minutes about Gettysburg, asks the question: "Were you there when Pickett charged?" as if that famous incident comprised the whole of the battle, whereas it was only the fire-works at the end of the three days' meeting.

When Pickett's charge was made I was behind the stone wall, about three miles away, and, consequently, did not see it.

At the "supreme moment," I was quietly picking blackberries in an old field where the reserve artillery had been parked.

When the tremendous firing began and the reserve artillery were ordered down, I stopped my blackberrying, out of season, and went down to the front to see what the fuss was all about.

Pickett's charge has been done--and over-done--so very thoroughly by both sides, that I shall not even attempt to add a word to the mass of stuff that has already been printed about it.

There is, however, a little story about a charge of Pennsylvanians in the Virginia "burg," led by the glorious but unobtrusive Meade, that the old Army of the Potomac should not themselves forget, nor allow their old-time enemies to obliterate, or snow under. I refer to the charge of Meade on the left at Fredericksburg, December 11th, 1862, where, with fewer numbers, he accomplished greater results than Pickett against greater odds:

With the Rappahannock River in the rear, Meade led his Division over a mile of plain under a heavy artillery fire, and broke the celebrated Stonewall Jackson line, and penetrated 600 yards beyond their line. If he had been sustained, the slaughter at Marye's Heights would have been avoided.

It was also at Marye's Heights, where greater heroism was shown, where not one grand attempt was made, but where charge after charge was made against an absolutely impregnable position, yet one never hears of these charges.

The gallant Allabach, the veteran of two wars, led the last final onslaught on Marye's Heights, at the head of a small brigade of Pennsylvania troops of Humphrey's Division that had never before been under fire, and this handful comparatively, went into the very jaws of death, and, though they did not reach the stone wall, they got nearest to it and kept their ground, within a few rods of it till dark, when they were ordered to fall back.

No prisoners were taken at Fredericksburg as there were at Gettysburg.

The snake, Secession, had its back-bone broken at Gettysburg to be sure, but boys of the dear old Army of the Potomac--patient, noble, long-suffering old Army of the Potomac--remember the early, the dark days, when Meade, Hancock, Reynold, Warren, Humphreys, etc., were our immediate commanders; do not forget the old Army of the Potomac and its numerous general officers when the proper praises are so freely being given to its later chiefs.

Though the final charge of Pickett, preceded and attended as it was by peculiarly dramatic surroundings, has furnished a subject for more speeches, historical essays, paintings, poems, than any other event which ever occurred in America, yet, in point of fact, history is wrong in ascribing the credit to Pickett.

The charge was not led by Pickett, neither were the troops who did the most gallant fighting Virginians.

It is reserved for these Spy papers to record, on the testimony of reliable, Confederate officers, that Pickett did not get within a mile of our lines.

The best fighting was done by the North Carolinians and Tennesseeans, led by Pettigrew; therefore, it should be Pettigrew's charge. In this, as in many other matters, the historians of the war are at fault.

May we hope that the humble efforts of the "Boys" in these pages, will, at least, call attention to some of those inaccuracies, with a view of getting at the truth.

As I have intimated, I have endeavored to collect some recent testimony from the Southern side, having spent some time on the old war-trail, which I hope to be able to put in shape soon. The time must come when the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, will be known, and then, perhaps, future generations may be taught to see that to the Pennsylvania Reserves is due some of the honor, valor, gallantry and patriotism that is now being so freely offered to the Pickett survivors.

No one will question their bravery at Gettysburg on July 3rd, 1863; but since then, and on July 4th, 1887, the survivors have left themselves open to attack, in assuming their positions in reference to monuments.

There remains among the Southern people an ignorant, deep-seated belief, which is being taught the "New South," that, if Longstreet had properly supported Pickett, they would have been successful, and the country would have become a Confederacy. There is a great deal of "if" in all the survivors' talk in the New South, so that we may indulge in the use of the little word, and propose a few conundrums--possibilities.

What would have been the result, if Meade had been supported by Franklin, when he broke Stonewall Jackson's line at Fredericksburg? And if Sedgwick had been properly supported by Hooker, at Chancellorsville, when he drove Early from behind the "impregnable" works on Marye's Heights? Once more: If Pickett had succeeded and had broken into our line, and had been supported by Longstreet, then if the Sixth Corps, which had scarcely been engaged in the great fight, had turned in on them on the flank, if any of them had gotten back at all it would have been a miracle. If, on the other hand, General Meade had taken Hancock's advice and turned the Reserves and the Sixth Corps loose after Pickett the war might have ended. If they were to try it again they would be whipped worse. If they don't believe it, fire on Fort Sumter. If we had never been born we would not have to die.

There was one little episode I have never seen recorded. After the charge of Pickett--on the third day--had failed, everything had quieted down. Meade, accompanied by his Staff, went over the wall and rode along our entire front, from Cemetery Hill to the Round Tops, receiving the cheers of the whole army, or all that was left.

That was the only time I ever heard music on a battlefield; then it was from a band in the woods at Little Round Top, that played "Hail to the Chief."

I never hear that old tune, nowadays, on these fancy parades, but it brings up the recollection of that great day and causes the cold chills to creep up and down my spine.

I rode with General Meade this day; to prove which, I will ask some of the survivors who witnessed that event to recall a smooth-faced boy on a lame horse that brought up the rear of the dashing cavalcade. My nag got hurt the first day, and I did not have a chance to steal another, and, as I was bound to be on hand, I had to ride my lame horse.

The General and Staff always go at a break-neck gallop, the Staff tearing along in the rear, like a tail to a comet, so that, in this case, I "got left" about a gunshot to the rear; and, because I so energetically spurred the lame horse, to catch up, our boys, behind the stone wall, gave me the laugh and some cheers of derision. They were all feeling pretty good just then, and were excusable.

One of the Staff-officers told me that we had captured General Longstreet, and when I got over among the Reserves I told this bit of news, where it created a sensation.

I have never seen an account of that ride along the lines in print. It is correct, though it may have been the fourth day instead of the third. You will find in the Rebel reports of the battle, that General Lee states that, on hearing these shouts and cheers from our army, he thought it meant an advance on his line, and he made preparations to meet it. I think it was the cheers for General Meade that he heard, even so distant as his headquarters.

But we will leave Gettysburg. I want to say something about Kilpatrick and the Corn Exchange Regiment of emergency men, that came out of Philadelphia at that time to repel the invasion.

It is not for me to criticise General Meade for not closely pursuing Lee's shattered army. We all know that, when a rattle-snake is chased into his hole, he don't leave his tail exposed, but at once presents his head to the entrance. I remember that some days after Gettysburg, while we were at Emmittsburg, or between there and Frederick, Maryland, General Kilpatrick and some of his associates had an animated conversation about it, which everybody in the neighborhood heard, as Kilpatrick was a free talker when he became very much interested in a subject. On this occasion he freely expressed his disgust with the slow proceedings, but no one who knew Kilpatrick well paid much attention to his bluster. He was nick-named "Kill Cavalry," because of his recklessness and apparent disregard of his own and the lives of his men.

I will relate a single incident illustrating this General's character, that occurred in my hearing at Hagerstown. At the time of the Gettysburg campaign there had been quite a lot of emergency troops called out by the Governor of Pennsylvania--"ninety-minute men" we called them. On our march from Gettysburg we met with these home-guards at different points. I remember that just outside of the town of Frederick, Maryland, there was a regiment of these men doing guard duty. As we marched by, and these citizen-soldiers, who were fresh in their picturesque, zoo-zoo uniforms, or, as they are sometimes called, "Night-drawers Cadets," the dirty-looking, old, blue-bloused veterans chaffed them most unmercifully. It was wet weather, and the roads were muddy, as is always the case after a battle. Wherever these ninety-minute men were stationed on guard duty, they were to be found perched as sentries on top of a pile of cracker-boxes or fence rails, to keep their feet out of the mud, the boxes giving them the appearance of a statue on a pedestal.

"Pretty boys," "Nice little sogers," "Don't get your feet wet, sonny; you might take cold," "Let me kiss him for his sister," are mild specimens of the expressions hurled at them from the marching columns of old vets.

My recollection is that these were Philadelphia troops. When we reached Hagerstown, we ran into a lot more of them, that had come down the Cumberland Valley from Harrisburg and Chambersburg to head Lee off. One of these organizations was, I think, called the Corn Exchange Regiment, recruited, or at least fathered, and sent into the field by the wealthy gentlemen of the Philadelphia Exchange. They were composed of what may be termed the better class of men; at least, that was their own estimate of themselves. At their Philadelphia home they probably ranked as rather an exclusive set of boys. Their officers were decidedly "fresh," to use a slang term; at least, we around headquarters, who had become accustomed to pay some attention to military etiquette, were disgusted to see these line officers crowd around our Generals, to stare at and talk as familiarly as if they were all corps commanders.

Custer and Kilpatrick, with whom I was then serving, were at first immensely amused at the efforts of the militia officers to make themselves agreeable. The officers and men, too, felt, no doubt, that it was their only opportunity to see a live General, like Kilpatrick and Custer, and were bound to gratify their curiosity while they had a chance.

In addition to their curiosity, these chaps were continually imploring General Kilpatrick to let them have "just one chance at the Rebels." They begged that they might be permitted to have an opportunity to distinguish themselves before they returned to Philadelphia.

One evening Kilpatrick told Custer, in my hearing, to put some of these men out on the picket-line, which was really a most dangerous place, for they were in close proximity to the rear-guard of Lee's army. The rear of an army cornered, as was Lee's at that time, is an ugly place to put a recruit, and General Kilpatrick knew very well that, in yielding to their foolish requests, he was subjecting them to great danger. But General Kilpatrick concluded he would have a little fun out of the recruits, so he placed some of them on the advance line, and watched to see what they would do if attacked. We all dismounted, and were watching the lines of Rebels. The officer of the guard protested against having these new men on his line, saying they would be likely to raise a hornets' nest about our ears, but Kilpatrick told him to let them try their hands a little while. These men went up the hill a little distance, when their brilliant uniforms attracted the attention of the Johnnies, and, as they acted as though they were going to drive Lee's army across the Potomac, they let these recruits have a few shots by way of warning, which was answered by the Philadelphians, who became excited, with a broadside. The Rebel fire had injured about a dozen of the recruits, one big fellow keeling over and yelling like a boy stumping a sore toe. Instead of continuing up the hill, or even falling back, they all crowded together where the wounded lay, and began to console with them. They were finally brought away, with the loss of a few more men, and they did not bother General Kilpatrick again to be placed in the front rank of the army. But there was one thing about Kilpatrick: he never ordered a man to go where he was not willing to lead. I stood beside him the following day, near Williamsport, when a rifle-ball whizzed close by his ear. Jerking up his hand nervously, as if stung by a bee, or to brush off a mosquito, he turned to me and said: "Holy Moses! That ball came near hitting me." But he didn't move out of range of that sharpshooter--but I did.

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