"THANK GOD, I'M SAFE AMONG MY FRIENDS.""THANK GOD, I'M SAFE AMONG MY FRIENDS."
On finding myself confronted by three Rebels in uniform, two of whom had guns, the third, being an officer, gesticulated in a threatening, inelegant sort of style with the hand in which he carelessly held a cocked revolver; I at once walked toward them and, with a suddenly assumed air of relief, said:
"Thank God, I am safe among my friends."
This vehement observation rather nonplussed the officer, who, seeing that I was unarmed, walked up to me and accepted my outstretched hand in a dazed sort of way. He hurriedly directed the men to follow my entreating comrade, saying, as they ran down the road:
"Remember, now, you are not to fire unless you meet a lot."
I was rejoiced to hear this, and at once told the officer that my comrade, like myself, had intended to come into their army, but he was scared and ran because he thought they were our own scouts.
"Are you both Yankee soldiers?"
I repulsed the base insinuation with scorn, and told him we were both dying to join the Rebel Army.
"But that fellow has on the blue uniform."
Sure enough, I had forgotten all about that, but told him that was no difference—that half the men in Banks' Army were only waiting a favorable chance to come over and join them. The officer, who was a conceited fellow, who had been placed in charge of the pickets or cavalry scouts on this outpost for the day, eagerly swallowed this stuff. It will be remembered that at this time—only a week after their victory at Bull Run—the Rebels were prepared to believe almost anything reported to them from our side and were, of course, somewhat lax in their scrutiny of refugees, who were actually going over the line daily to unite their fortunes with those of the South, whom they were sure after the first battle must be victorious.
We had quite a pleasant talk as we stood together by the roadside awaiting the result of the chase of my comrade. It was explained by the officer that their instructions were not to fire except in certain emergencies; the object of their being there wasto quietly observe the operations of the Yankees from their points of lookout on the heights, from which a full view of everything transpiring on our side was to be had.
This was an item of news from the Rebel officer which I should like General Banks to have been advised of. He further astonished me by saying:
"We have been watching you two fellows all the afternoon; we saw you cross the river, and when you came up the hill our men up there came in and reported that you were two scouts, and could be captured, so I was sent down here to gather you in."
I was able to force what I am afraid was rather a sickly laugh at this exhibition of our "prowess," and, as a further earnest of our good intentions, I volunteered to accompany the officer down the road, with a view of meeting my running comrade and signaling him it would be all right to come in.
Accepting this service, we walked rapidly together in the direction taken by the two men with guns, but as all three had stopped to hear my story, my chum had probably been making good time alonghisside of the fence, which, with the undergrowth, had served to keep him out of sight, and had stretched the distance between him and the Rebels, but, as the river was still to ford, I feared, for my own safety, that he might yet be captured.
We had not gone far when we met the two men returning alone. To the eager questioning of the officer the foremost one replied:
"We been down to the river and he ain't thar." The second Rebel joining in, said: "That fellow's in the woods, sure—he never went to the river."
After a little consultation, in which I took part, it was decided to wait and watch till he should come out of his hole. With a view to making myself more solid with the officer, I volunteered to assist in the hunt by proposing to call loudly on my friend to come out of his hiding place and join us. The proposition was, in a courteous manner, conditionally accepted, the officer being fearful that any loud calls might be heard by the Yankee's outposts and endanger their secluded outlooks, advised that I should be moderate in my outcry. Climbing up on the fence and putting both hands to my mouth to form the trumpet boys use when hallooing to their playmates, I sang out as loudly as I could, "H-e-l-l-o-o-a, B-o-b!"
All eagerly listened for the echo in reply, but I, fearful that he might answer, continued in the next breath:
"All right," and as I forced a little choking cough, to disguise and smother the words, like the robber in Fra Diavalo, "Come on!"
All waited quietly for an answer, but only the echo "on" came back. Bob was too far off to have heard my voice, and I realized I had been left alone in the hands of the Rebels. I was a prisoner.
There is among some old letters that my sister has religiously preserved—one from a stranger, signed with Bob's correct name and address, describing in feeling terms our adventure, and my capture, bewailing my sad fate, and tendering his heartfelt sympathy, pretty much in the same form of letters from comrades in the field, which became frequent in the families of the North and South announcing the death or capture of sons and brothers, in which it is stated that, as my companion heard shots after he left me, and he supposed, of course, I had been killed. I may as well state that this letter was written by Mr. C. W. Hoffman, who is now a resident of Latrobe, Pennsylvania.
Comrade Hoffman served subsequently with distinction as a scout, being detailed as one of a party to approach Fort Sumter previous to the attack made there.
A pleasant renewal of the old war acquaintance has recently been brought about. I give herewith a recent letter from Mr. Hoffman:
Latrobe, Penn., March 29, 1887.J. O. Kerbey.Dear Old Friend:I often thought of you. I learned your present address from your brother at Wilmore. What are you doing? Let us hear from you. I am the fellow that run away from you on the mountains, in Virginia, in August, 1861. I went on quite a distance that day. I slept on that mountain all night. The next day I returned to the hotel at Sandy Hook. I had quite a time of it: I saw several Rebel cavalrymen, but I always made it a point to keep out of their way, as I had the blue pants and blouse on. Those fellows made their headquarters next to where you made the inquiries at the old woman's log house. It was a wonder they did not take me a prisoner, as at times I wandered out in the country very barely. Wasn't there a Rebel camp near Leesburg, or was that the name of the town near that mountain? I suppose it is about eight miles from Harper's Ferry. I could hear drums beating plainly—I was not far from the town. I had quite a time of it when I returnedto Sandy Hook—I was arrested as a spy, was thrown into the guard house, but finally got out all right. I was a scout and had papers to show to that effect, but never did much at it. Hoping to hear from you.Yours truly,C. W. Hoffman.
Latrobe, Penn., March 29, 1887.
J. O. Kerbey.
Dear Old Friend:I often thought of you. I learned your present address from your brother at Wilmore. What are you doing? Let us hear from you. I am the fellow that run away from you on the mountains, in Virginia, in August, 1861. I went on quite a distance that day. I slept on that mountain all night. The next day I returned to the hotel at Sandy Hook. I had quite a time of it: I saw several Rebel cavalrymen, but I always made it a point to keep out of their way, as I had the blue pants and blouse on. Those fellows made their headquarters next to where you made the inquiries at the old woman's log house. It was a wonder they did not take me a prisoner, as at times I wandered out in the country very barely. Wasn't there a Rebel camp near Leesburg, or was that the name of the town near that mountain? I suppose it is about eight miles from Harper's Ferry. I could hear drums beating plainly—I was not far from the town. I had quite a time of it when I returnedto Sandy Hook—I was arrested as a spy, was thrown into the guard house, but finally got out all right. I was a scout and had papers to show to that effect, but never did much at it. Hoping to hear from you.
Yours truly,C. W. Hoffman.
As a further evidence of the correctness of my narrative, and with a view of adding interest to the story, I publish herewith a private letter from my brother, Spencer, who was at that time in the Military Telegraph Service. My aunt Ruth, to whom it was addressed, and who was a mother to us both, passed many sleepless nights on account of my wanderings, has recently resurrected some interesting testimonials.
Camp Union, near Bladensburgh, Md.,September 9th, 1861.Dear Aunt:By some unaccountable reason your letter was delayed. It was handed me by an "orderly" this evening. I presume it's beyond the possibility of a doubt that poor Joe was killed at Sandy Hook. My grief can better be imagined than described. None but those who have suffered the severing of ties of a loving brother's affection can form an idea of my heart's affliction. My dear sisters, how deeply and sincerely I sympathize with them in the deplorable loss of an ambitious brother. That letter must have almost broken Hatty's heart. It must have been a violent shock to father, but why should I so write and rouse within all of you the bitter renewal of your grief? We have for our support, that brother Joe fell nobly in the cause of his country, lamented by an affectionate and loving family, relatives and friends. It is to be hoped that when the keen sensibilities of our passions begin to subside that these considerations will give us comfort. I pray that the Almighty may give us (particularly father) fortitude to bear this severest of strokes, is the earnest wish of aBrother in affliction,Spencer.
Dear Aunt:By some unaccountable reason your letter was delayed. It was handed me by an "orderly" this evening. I presume it's beyond the possibility of a doubt that poor Joe was killed at Sandy Hook. My grief can better be imagined than described. None but those who have suffered the severing of ties of a loving brother's affection can form an idea of my heart's affliction. My dear sisters, how deeply and sincerely I sympathize with them in the deplorable loss of an ambitious brother. That letter must have almost broken Hatty's heart. It must have been a violent shock to father, but why should I so write and rouse within all of you the bitter renewal of your grief? We have for our support, that brother Joe fell nobly in the cause of his country, lamented by an affectionate and loving family, relatives and friends. It is to be hoped that when the keen sensibilities of our passions begin to subside that these considerations will give us comfort. I pray that the Almighty may give us (particularly father) fortitude to bear this severest of strokes, is the earnest wish of a
Brother in affliction,Spencer.
I didn't report to General Banksthatnight—circumstances entirely beyond my control prevented me from doing so. I was, by the "fortunes of war," or my own carelessness, denied the privilege of proving to the General that I was "smart" enough to get through his own lines and back again from the enemy's country without the use of passes from his headquarters. If this should reach the eye of General Banks, he will, for the first time, read my official report of the scout, which I had proposed to him in July, 1861, and will, I am sure, in his courteous manner, accept, even at this late date, this apology or explanation for my failure to keep my engagement with him.
Luckily for me, at that particular time I did not have in my possession any passes from General Banks, or letter of introduction from the Secretary of War, endorsing me as a competent spy. These I had left with General Patterson a few days previously.
Leaving the two soldiers to further look after the road, in hope of enticing my friend in—not that they were so anxious for the person of a prisoner—but, as they said, it was important no one should escape to report the fact that a station for observation was being maintained on the heights.
Alongside of my officer I walked for quite a long distance, talking in a general way upon the subject which was then uppermost in everybody's mind—i. e., the recent battle of Bull Run. For good reasons, I heartily agreed with his absurd conclusions. I knew full well the importance of creating upon his mind the impression that I was abona fiderefugee, and with the instinctive shrewdness partly born of my former experience I was successful in fully satisfying the officer that the Southern army had secured another hearty supporter, or zealous recruit. It was scarcely possible to undo the thing at that time, as the whole South were wild in their enthusiasm after Bull Run, and to this fact I may partially ascribe my escape from detection and execution.
The only fear that I entertained was, that I might meet either with some Maryland refugees who might cross-question me too closely, or perhaps I might again encounter the Rebel Spy I had met at General Patterson's headquarters; or, worst of all, that some of those Pensacola troops, or Texas acquaintances, might have been transferred to Beauregard's army, and would recognize me.
A captive is always an object of curiosity. I must expect to be gazed upon, stared at, and scrutinized wherever I should be taken.
I might explain away any objections that would offer to the refugee story, as there was no evidence existing that I had recently acted the part of a scout; but the Fort Pickens episode could not be so explained. The mere discovery of my identity meant a speedy hanging, without the form of a court-martial.
I believe I have not yet tried to describe my personal appearance at that time.
I had, from a mere lad, been wearing my hair long, combed back of my ears; despite the jeering remarks of my companions, my "back hair" reached my shoulders, where, truth compels me to admit, it lay in better curls than Buffalo Bill's, Texas Jack's, or, more recently, that of "Jack Crawford," the cow-boy scout.
Probably my long hair was in part accepted by the rebels as an evidence that I naturally belonged to the South, where the style was more common than in the North. It will be remembered, too, in extenuation of my fancy, that I had spent the previous winter in Texas, the climate of which is favorable to the growth of hair on the cow-boys.
My dress, at the time of our surprise, consisted simply and only of a fine, colored, traveling shirt with open rolling collar, red loose necktie, dark trousers, and a coat of the same, topped off by a small, soft, slouch hat; of course, I had shoes which were pretty well worn, and my feet had become quite sore from so much walking. This was not a very complete wardrobe out of which to fashion a costume for a disguise.
My face had become very much sun-burned, and, in bathing, while exposed to the hot sun, my shoulders had become blistered, so that the flannel or cloth overshirt peeled the skin off in a most uncomfortable way.
Reaching the advance of the Rebel outposts, which were locatedat an old house—half farm and half tavern—situated on the bank of the little stream at the ford or point where the highway or pike crossed which led to Manassas, we found assembled quite a number of Rebel cavalry soldiers, who were entertaining in their exuberant, self-satisfied way, quite a crowd of civilians who had been attracted to the place.
Into this group of eager, inquisitive Rebels I was, to their surprise, introduced as a "prisoner who wanted to join our army."
It may be surmised that I had, with as great eagerness as themselves, anxiously glanced among the faces, that were all turned towards us as we approached, to discover if among them were any whom I had ever seen before.
Providence, on this occasion at least, was not "on the side of the heaviest battalion," but with the solitary "refugee," who breathed a sigh of relief upon failing to discover one familiar face.
Unfortunately for my peace of mind, there were among the civilian visitors to these soldiers one of those pompous Virginian 'Squires of middle age who, though attired in a fancy grey uniform coat and civilian's pants and hat, was not, I was informed, really in their service. The patronizing manner peculiar to this class of gentlemen was, by reason of his age, indulged by the young officer in command, who permitted him to dictate, like a country 'squire, the manner in which the "culprit" should be disposed of.
It was arranged by my captors, through this meddlesome old 'Squire's influence, that I should be escorted to General Beauregard as a prisoner, leaving for him or his officers to decide upon the advisability of accepting my story and services.
The pompous old Virginia militia Colonel was merely gratifying his own selfish vanity by securing me as his prey, proposed to take me in his buggy direct to the General, whom he wished to communicate with personally.
"How is it that your companion in the uniform ran away on the approach of our troops?" said the old wind-bag, addressing me in a manner so haughty that I immediately resented it, and replied in a tone that some of the bystanders rather enjoyed:
"Oh, he was one of the Bull Run fellows; I am not responsible for him."
I did not relish the idea of going into General Beauregard'spresence in this old Colonel's charge, lest he might, in trying to magnify his own importance, so represent my capture as to create in the minds of the officers at headquarters a suspicion or doubt as to my motive.
The young officer was convinced that I was O. K., and to him I privately expressed the wish that he would not report me an unwilling prisoner, or that I had tried to escape, assuring him that if such had been my intention I could easily have accomplished it. He agreed with me, and, at my further request, actually gave me, privately, a little note to present in my own defense, if I should need it.
So it came about that I shared the hospitality of the Virginia gentleman's buggy, as we drove along the road that eveningen routeto General Beauregard's headquarters with a pleasant note of introduction from a Rebel officer in my pocket, in which was recited his belief that I had voluntarily entered the lines as a refugee.
We spent the night in that vicinity, at some neighbor's farmhouse.
When the old gentleman and I were again alone on the road, I began to work on his patriotism a little, but it was not exactly a success. His manner was not congenial at all. He had with him a fine English repeating rifle, which he placed between us, with the butt resting on the floor of the buggy, and, as we drove along that day, I had it in my mind for the first time in my life to commit a murder.
As we were slowly ascending one of the mountains, I remarked to the Colonel that I believed I'd walk up the mountain, stretch my legs, and relieve the horse for awhile, when he glanced at me and, with a hateful, overbearing sneer on his face, said:
"You wont get out of this buggy until I put you into General Beauregard's hands."
I felt a wicked sensation dart through me that I had never before experienced, and instinctively my own eyes rested on the gun; the Colonel saw my face, and reached for his gun not a moment too soon; my self-possession came to me, and I merely said:
"You're not driving a nigger now."
I still had my loaded pistol concealed in a belt under my clothes. I had acquired while in Texas the Southern accomplishment oflearning its use, and was expert and quick enough to have put its contents in the blatant old fool's ear, and would probably have done so had I not been restrained by the fear that the report would bring about us a crowd of Rebels.
For an hour after this incident we drove along in sullen silence. I felt in my soul that I was being driven like a condemned criminal to the gallows, and this old Colonel was merely my hangman, whom I ought to shoot like a rat.
After cool reflection I concluded that, with the officer's note in my possession, I would be able to counteract any unfavorable impressions he might try to make. I had not attempted to commit any act in Virginia that he could prove which would operate against me. The only matter I had to fear was the discovery of my identity as the person who had played the spy in Florida; but as that was many hundred miles away, I felt that I was comparatively safe.
Beside this, I wanted most earnestly to see General Beauregard myself, and to visit his army at Manassas, and pretended that I was glad to have the use of the old man's buggy, instead of having to trudge along on foot.
The approach to the outskirts of the Rebel army was evident from the frequent appearance of men in gray clothes, who were apparently straggling along the road bound to their homes. A great many of them seemed to have formed the conclusion that, having whipped the Yankees at Bull Run, the war was over, or, if it wasn't, it ought to be, and they could return to their homes in peace, at least until wanted again.
At certain points along the highway, such as bridges, toll-gates and cross-roads, we were halted by guards, who, like the stragglers, were quite communicative to our Colonel, and were of the general opinion that there was no longer any necessity for any particular stringency in enforcing orders, as the war would soon be over; we were, in consequence, permitted to drive ahead without delay.
My old Colonel had taken occasion at several points to call attention to his "prisoner" in a patronizing way. I was pleased and encouraged to note that the air of importance with which the old man attempted to surround himself did not evoke the laudation that he expected.
As we drove up to a house by the roadside to water the horse,I mildly suggested that I should like an opportunity to wash some of the dust and perspiration from my face and brush up a little before being presented to the General. My guardian angel, probably thinking it would serve his purpose better to show me up in as unfavorable an appearance as possible, bluntly refused to accord me this privilege, saying, as he drove off:
"I'm in a hurry to get there, as I don't want to have you on my hands all night."
We were now close to the railroad tracks, along side of which were numerous camps, or those that had been abandoned for more comfortable location out toward the front. I need not tell old soldiers how uncomfortable and desolate the rear or outskirts of an army are, especially in the miserable country about Manassas.
The roads were crowded with all sorts of vehicles, from artillery and ammunition wagons, driven by colored boys and guarded by frisky black-horse cavalrymen, to the two-wheeled carts run by decrepit old colored people who were peddling "truck" for the benefit of their Virginia-Yankee owners, whom, by the way, the real Southern people from the South said at that time were worse than any other sort of Yankee.
Of course the road was dusty—Virginia roads are either dusty or muddy, and, being so much crowded, our progress became a little slow. As we drove along through that Rebel army that evening, I am sure there was not a face in all the crowd that I did not eagerly scan, in nervous anticipation of meeting some one who might recognize me. When the old man was told we were off the road to headquarters, I felt as much annoyed as himself at the delay in reaching General Beauregard's headquarters.
I observed particularly an entire absence of anything that looked like preparations for an advance. Of this I became more satisfied the further on we got, both from the appearance of men traveling to the rear and from the careless appearance of the troops toward the front.
Artillery was parked in shady places; the horses were not corralled close to the guns; in fact, everything was very much in the same disordered condition that I had observed in our army.
About an hour before sundown we reached Beauregard's headquarters. As we drove up to the fence the old man hailed a colored boy, and bade him tie his horse; then, turning to me with a smile of relief, he said:
"Here we are; get out!"
I obeyed with an alacrity that caused him to stare at me in wonder, as he stretched his sleepy legs and got out after me, walking beside me with his gun in hand until suddenly halted by a sentry on guard, to whom my Virginian said:
"I want to see General Beauregard," and proceeded to walk ahead, as if he was a privileged character, but the sentry called down the old fool's dignity by peremptorily ordering him to "halt," as he brought his gun to a carry. There were some sharp words spoken, but the guard understood his business, and gave the old man his first lesson in military etiquette, that no doubt lasted for all the war. An officer near by, who had been attracted by the slight rumpus, approached the sentry, who properly saluted him, and, in answer to the officer's questions, began to give an account of the trouble, but had barely begun to speak when the old farmer, swelling like a turkey-gobbler, ignoring the soldier, and endeavoring to talk over the head of the officer, in a loud voice said: "I want to see General Beauregardat once, and I'll have this fellow punished for insulting a gentleman."
The officer, who was a gentleman, mildly suggested that the man had been only doing his duty and obeying orders, but my friend's choler was up and, refusing all explanations, demanded an immediate interview with the General.
The officer now began to get mad and, in a commanding tone, inquired: "What is your business, sir, with the General?" to which the old gentleman replied: "I will explain my business when I see the General."
"Well, sir, you will have to give me your name and the nature of your business, and I will advise you as to the General's pleasure."
"My name, sir, is Colonel ——, of Virginia, by gad; and my business is to turn over a prisoner whom we caught prowling in our county, sir; there he stands, right there, sir."
Turning to look at me, the officer said to the Colonel: "Well, you should escort your prisoner to the provost-marshal. General Beauregard is not entertaining prisoners."
After a few more passages at arms it was settled that I should beleft in charge of the guard while theColoneland theGeneralhad an interview.
While he was tellinghisstory to General Beauregard, which, I suspect, referred more to the "insult" to himself than to my dangerous character, the officer, who had returned to me, politely said something about "old fools." I agreed with him, and took occasion to add my mite of experience with the old fool, and saying that I had merely come from a patriotic impulse from my own home to do something forthe country, but had been treated with so much indignity by this old man I was sorry I had left home.
In his state of mind my interpretation of the story had a most agreeable effect, which was further strengthened by the note from the officer who had captured me. As soon as he read this, turning to me, he politely asked to be excused, as he returned to the General who was being bored to death by my Colonel.
In a moment more General Beauregard and my Colonel made an appearance, the latter still talking earnestly. The General was bare-headed, his coat unbuttoned, and presented to my vision the appearance of a pleasant Jewish gentleman. He looked at me while the old gas-bag was exhausting itself, but did not speak a word either to me or the Colonel until my young officer spoke up and said:
"I think, General, I had better relieve this gentleman of the responsibility of the care of the young Marylander," at the same time handing to the General the note I had given him.
General Beauregard again looked at me as he finished reading it, and, turning to the officer, said:
"Yes, yes, that will do."
And bidding the Colonel a good evening, as he excused himself, walked off.
It must not be thought that the Virginia Colonel believed, or for an instant suspected my true character;hisonly object was to secure some attention for himself by pressing me upon the General personally; and his own egotism defeated his purpose, to my very great relief.
The Colonel being thus summarily disposed of, the officer, who introduced himself to me as an aide to General Beauregard, began to apologize for my ungracious reception in the Southern Army.
I told him my desire was to connect myself with some of the Baltimore refugees, and I was informed that I should have the opportunity soon; but at that time I think there were no distinct Maryland organizations in their Army. When I suggested that, as I was without money, I must work to earn a living, I meekly observed that being a railroader at home I should like an opportunity to be employed somewhere in that capacity, as I should be able to do justice to myself and my employers better there than elsewhere until I could be able to unite with the army.
"Just the thing; we need experienced men on the roads here now as much as we require soldiers," and, turning to an orderly, he directed him to accompany me to a certain official who had charge of the railroad transportation with therequest from General Beauregard that his services be availedof, as he is an experienced railroad man.
It was after dark when I became finally located, and, singular as it may seem, I was that night an occupant of a couch in the railroad depot,within sound of the telegraph instruments operating between Manassas and Richmond, and this byexpressauthority ofGeneral Beauregard, instead of being a prisoner in a guard-house waiting for execution.
I have been careful to give all the details of this day at perhaps tedious length, not that it was interesting, but because of the bearing on the subsequent events, which I believe are as remarkable as anything yet recorded in the secret service of the war.
I was always particularly careful to conceal from every one with whom I was in contact when scouting that I was an expert telegrapher. As such I was able, without any apparent effort at listening on my part, or in any way indicating by my manner that I was paying any attention to the monotonous clicking of the instruments, to interpret every word or signal that they gave out.
I had studied this part carefully, realizing fully that upon my successful concealment of this accomplishment everything depended.
I now found myself—through a train of events that seemed almost providential—in exactly the position inside the Rebel armies from which I could best accomplish the objects that I had set out to undertake when I first presented the Secretary's letter to General Patterson and General Porter.
I might have been there before the battle, if Fitz-John Porter had not delayed me. A few days after, I was at the old shanty of a railroad depot from which the trains and telegraph communication were had with Richmond, Gordonsville, and the Valley; the armies of Generals Beauregard and Johnston were encamped some distance in advance of this point, but my situation was exactly suited to my purpose, which was to intercept communication over the wire to and from Richmond between the Rebel Government and their Generals in the field. I might learn more by sitting still or loafing around listlessly in one day at that point than could be accomplished by a week's tramp through every camp of the Rebel Army.
When I reached the railway station, in charge of one of GeneralBeauregard's orderlies, it was quite dark. The gentlemanly Rebel soldier, at the direction of the staff officer, escorted me thither from headquarters, politely presented me to the agent or officer in charge, as a "Maryland refugee, whom General Beauregard had sent to him to make use of until such time as he could join with some other Marylanders, who were to come in soon." I was also further recommended as having been connected with railroads in the North, and, continuing, he said:
"Mr. Wilmore" (I had assumed my mother's maiden name) "is willing to undertake any work you may have for him."
"Yes," I spoke up; "I shall be obliged for any employment that will enable me to even earn my rations until I can meet with some friends, whom I expect."
I was cordially received and hospitably entertained as one of the exiled refugees from "Maryland, my Maryland;" in fact, I became somewhat embarrassed by the generous attentions that the attachés about the place were disposed to give me, on account of my being a youthful exile from home.
The station-house was an old frame structure, such as one sees on second-class railways in a new country. One portion was assigned to the offices, in which were crowded together the ticket-sellers, the agent, clerks, and the three telegraph operators. There had not, of course, entered into the plans of the builder of the road and station-houses any calculations for the increased facilities demanded by the presence of a large army at that point, and, necessarily, everything was exceedingly cramped and crowded, which uncomfortable fact served all the better for my purposes.
There was a squad of Rebel soldiers detailed at the depot for the protection of property and to guard the employés. The measly old shanty was more correctly termed a "depot" than are some of those elegant railroad structures which have recently been erected over the country, which, properly speaking, are "stations," even if located at a city terminus—a depot being correctly defined as a storehouse, or base of supplies for an army.
This depot, like all the country stations, had a broad platform around two sides of it. At the rear of the office portion was a window looking out on this platform. Inside of the office, against the wall, immediately under this window, was an old deal table orshelf, on which was placed two complete sets of Morse instruments, while scattered about over this desk in a telegraphic style was a lot of paper neatly done up in clips, an old inkstand, half a dozen pens, short pieces of lead pencils, while behind the instruments a meerschaum pipe nestled in a cigar box half filled with tobacco. There were a couple of glass insulators for paper weights, and an immense six-inch glass jar, or battery cup, which the operators used for a drinking cup.
The fact that this cup had recently composed part of his battery and contained a strong solution of nitric acid, did not, that I ever noticed, deter the thirsty telegrapher from taking a long swig out of it after "Jimmy," the little messenger, should bring it in full of water fresh from the spring.
The wires, covered with woven thread, were leading down the sides of the window, under the table, where they were taken up in an inexplicable net, and drawn through gimlet holes in the desk, and curled into their proper place in the instruments.
One of these instruments communicated with all the railroad stations on toward Gordonsville and the valley; the other was the direct line of communication with Richmond, and as this machine did most of the business, its voice, or tone, was permitted to sound the loudest, and partially drowned the other; but if an operator's educated ear detected the signal for attention from the railroad instrument, he could, by a mere twitch of the finger, accord it the prominent place, until its wants were attended to.
All the telegraph operators engaged there were clever gentlemen, who were, of course, as full of the Southern enthusiasm as were their soldiers, and to the end gave to their cause that zeal and devotion, protecting, as far as lay in their power, the important secrets and confidences which necessarily passed through their hands, without a single instance of betrayal of the trust.
Like the telegraph corps of the Union army, they served without rank, and for small pay, and no hope of achieving for themselves any of the glory of war. To-day the army telegraphers are not even accorded the privilege granted enlisted men and teamsters. Their names are, unfortunately, not enrolled among those of the "Grand Army."
Of course, I cultivated the friendship of the boys; I flatteredmyself that I knew some of their vulnerable points and was able to approach them in the proper way.
What operator has not been "made sick" by the stereotyped observation of visitors, who so often observe, with a superior air, perhaps, while he is showing his girl the telegraph office for the first time, while questioning the courteous and long-suffering operator as to the never ending "curiosities of the telegraph?"
"I once began to learn to telegraph, and knew the alphabet, and could write ever so many words, but I gave it up."
Too bad they all give it up. I've heard the remark in my time on an average of about once a week for twenty-five years, from educated men, too, and have been just that often made sick at the stomach. Any school boy can learn the alphabet from his book on philosophy; so he can learn the alphabet of the Greek, but it requires close application for months to make a mere "operator," and it usually takes years to make a telegrapher, while those who have studied the art and science of electricity longest say they know the least of its wonderful possibilities.
The very first act on my part was to question in this way the operator who was on duty the next morning. I had proposed to the station-master to sweep out for him, and endeavored, in a general way, to make myself a man of all work about the place, so that I might be allowed to remain there instead of being put on the road as a brakeman.
With a broom in my hand, I observed to the operator, who was at that moment leaning over and peering under his desk cleaning his local battery, or rather bossing an old negro who was down on his knees trying to do this work for him: "I came near being an operator once."
I had not time to say that I had learned the alphabet when the young man straightened himself up and pleasantly observed: "Thehellyou did."
I turned my back and began sweeping vigorously, and, if the young man had seen my face, it would have shown a suppressed laugh instead of anger.
That remark fixed him. I know that he for one would never suspect me of being an operator. As the old colored uncle was not doing his work properly at the local, I volunteered to help; and,taking hold of the wires, I handled them in a clumsy way that was amusing to myself, and, under his direction, for my willingness to aid, I was told that I should have the nasty job of cleaning battery every day after that.
The first day passed without anything of especial interest occurring until about sundown, when a message which I had not heard was received for "headquarters."
It was the duty of one of the mounted orderlies to deliver all messages, but at that time there did not happen to be any orderly about, and, noting their hunt for one, I volunteered to perform the duty and on foot. My services were accepted without question, and I became the bearer of a dispatch to the Rebel headquarters.
The operator placed in my hands an enveloped message for an officer whose name I have forgotten, but it was addressed to the "Headquarters of the Army," remarking, as he carelessly handed it to me: "It's an important message from Richmond and must be answered right away, or I should let it lie over until one of those orderlies got back, because it's an awful long walk from here."
Anxious to get the important paper in my hands, I did not think or care for that at all, and told him with an earnestness that I could hardly suppress that I'd rather walk a little than lay around there idle so much, especially as I hoped by getting out to be able to meet some of my Maryland friends in the camps. They all looked upon my proposal as being prompted by my zeal or my "willingness" to be of any service possible to the cause generally and the telegraph people personally.
The Rebel armies had been advanced somewhat during the few days. We all know how difficult it is to find a certain regiment or brigade which we had left perhaps in a snug camp in a well-known location only the day previous, rigged up and beautifully laid out and decorated as if they intended to make it a winter quarters, but had been suddenly ordered during the night, perhaps, to some distant point on a picket detail or wagon guard. These sudden changes in the camps and of the headquarters to a straggling cavalryman or infantryman seem to alter the entire topography of the country in one day, and is very confusing to anyone.
I concluded, however, to take the general course which had been indicated, and to depend on further inquiries as I went along.
With this important dispatch in my pocket, my curiosity burning with an intense desire to learn its contents, I started off briskly, determining in my usual reckless manner that, if it should turn out to be important, that I'd deliver it toourheadquarters, instead of to the Rebel's, that night. It did not in those days occur to me very often that there might be obstacles in my path. I presume that I felt if there were that, as a matter of course, I should be able to overcome or crush any attempted interference with my plans.
I had not gone far when I was startled out of my reverie by a "helloa," from the rear. Looking around in a frightened way, as if I had been detected in the very act of opening the envelope, as the subject was in my mind, I saw trotting up after me a neatly-dressed soldier on horseback, whom I recognized on a closer approach as one of the orderlies detailed for duty at the railroad station.
His laughing question assured me that I was not to be arrested, and, recovering myself, I was able to receive him calmly and pleasantly, as he said:
"I got back shortly after you had left, and they sent me out to relieve you. I'll take that dispatch out; why, it's five miles almost; we're much obliged to you, though."
I rather reluctantly handed over the envelope, which, perhaps luckily for me, had not been tampered with; the natty orderly slipped it under his belt and, after a few more pleasant words, rode off.
In a disappointed mood I retraced my steps to the telegraph station, walking along at a much more leisurely gait than when starting out. I had the leisure to think over my future operation, and before I had returned to the office, had about resolved in my own mind that there was not any use in longer staying about there. But, remembering my experience at Fort Pickens and in Patterson's army in getting into our own lines from that of the enemy, my mission in both cases being misunderstood and my object mistrusted by our own officers, because I had only my own word to support my reports, I fully determined that, without regard to the risk of carrying papers, I should not again return to our lines without taking with me some documentary or other proof to sustain my observations. I had thought, while in possession of the official dispatch, what a pleasant gratification it would be to my old friend Covode to be able to show him an intercepted dispatch from Richmond to the commander of the Rebel armies in the field; and as the thought of this performance dwelt in my brain as I walked along, I formed a hasty plan, which I believed I could mature and carry into effect—of securing from the files or papers in the telegraph office a number of copies of the most important dispatches, either in the handwriting of Generals Joseph E. Johnston or Beauregard, addressed to Richmond, or at least signed by them officially.
At the particular time during which I was at this point, it seemed to me that the burden of the wires was the messages of inquiry for the sick and wounded, mixed up with florid dispatches of congratulation, coupled almost always with expressions of the great possibilities of the South.
There were but few official messages of any importance that I was able to hear; those carried to and fro by the orderlies, and to which I gave my personal attention in a quiet way, would turn out to be generally some Quartermaster's or Commissaries' orders or requisitions, and I became nervous and tired over the strain or tension I had been obliged to maintain in order to overhear the instruments in the midst of the confusion always existing about the place.
As the telegraph table was jammed up tightly against the board wall of the house, under the window, it became my favorite place for loafing when outside of the office. I could sit on the board platform and, with my back against the boards under the window distinctly hear every word that went over the wires, the thin partition between my head and the inside answered as a sounding-board, really helping to convey the signals by vibration.
If the reader is anxious to try an experiment, let him place an ear against even a thick wall and allow some person with a penknife handle to tap or knock ever so softly, but quickly and sharply, in imitation of a telegraph instrument's click, and you will be astonished at the distinctness with which the wall will carry the sound like a telegraph wire.
There was always about the place a lot of idle loafers—Rebel soldiers off duty, who naturally gravitated toward the railroadstations, where the little stores or sutlers were usually to be found, dealing out commissary whisky and tobacco.
Every day, and for every train, there would be crowds of sickly-looking soldiers at the station in care of friends, who were taking them to the trains for their homes. Dear me! I recall it as if it were but yesterday, how the hundreds of poor fellows looked as they were helped aboard the crowded cars by their poor old fathers, or perhaps younger brothers. I always associate in my mind a sick Rebel, with his big eyes and sallow face, with a resemblance to a crazy tramp one sees sometimes nowadays, injured while stealing a ride on a freight train, gazing at everything in a stupid sort of way, clothed in a pair of butternut pants and coat, and big gray blanket over his shoulders even in that August sun. I saw lots of them go away from Manassas that I felt sure would never return to trouble us. They were not all sick, not by any means; some of the chaps that gathered about our place were about as lively and fractious as one meets at an Irish picnic.
One evening while sitting in my favorite place under the window, apparently dozing, but wide enough wake to take in every sound of the instrument which I knew emanated from the fingers of the operator at Richmond, my quick ear caught a message addressed to a prominent official. As it was being spelled out rapidly, promising something rich in the way of news development, I was eagerly straining every nerve and sense to catch every word of it. The instrument had ticked out the name and address, which had first attracted my attention, and I had read—"We have information from Washington that Banks—" when some big fellow among the crowd on the platform, of course not knowing of my intense earnestness at that moment, began a jig-dance on the board platform; and as his boots were at least number nine, and he weighed 200 pounds, of course the vibrations from that source smothered the other sounds. So intent and eagerly had I fixed myself on catching that message, and was so absorbed in my purpose, that, when the fellow made his first jump, I impulsively cried out: "Keep still a minute."
This was a dead "give away," or would have been to any person who had known anything of the telegraph business and my recentconnection with the place; but, quickly recovering myself, I said, "All right; I thought the operator was calling me."
He went on with his dancing but I lost the message.
I afterward carelessly walked inside and tried, without exciting any suspicion, to ascertain what the information about Banks amounted to. I was not successful at the time, but kept the matter in my mind constantly during the evening, and the more I thought about it the more eager I became to know its purport.
I was satisfied fully, from personal observation, that there was no thought of an advance on Washington. I could see from the number of leaves of absence, and the great crowds of soldiers leaving by every train, that no forward movement was then contemplated. Besides this, I had heard on the wire message after message of an official character from quartermasters, commissaries and others interested in the movement of an army, of sufficient character to satisfy me of any projected advance. I decided to go to Washington and report thus much.
It had been arranged that, as Beauregard (or Johnston) had advanced his line to near Fairfax Court House, the telegraph office would be moved the next day, so as to be more convenient.
Late in the night, when the only one on duty in the office was the operator with a guard or sentry outside, I lay on the floor of the office affecting sound sleep, but wide-awake. Knowing that it was the last opportunity to get hold of any papers, I became anxious and almost desperate. A long message had been sent to "S. Cooper, Adjutant-General, Richmond," giving a full and detailed account of an epidemic that had apparently broken out in the army. The dispatch was important I knew, from the fact of its being addressed to S. Cooper, who I knew was Adjutant-General for Jeff Davis, and was, I think, signed by Dr. Cartright. It was quite long; the only part of it which I distinctly remember was the astonishing statement that twenty-five per cent., or one-fourth, of the Rebel Army were sick or unable to do any active duty on account of this epidemic of dysentery or diarrh[oe]a. This was an important admission in an official form, and I decided that it was the message in writing that I must carry with me to Washington. I observed carefully where the operator placed the original copy after it had been sent.
It was his duty to have remained there all night, prepared to receive or send communications that might chance to come, but we all know how soundly the night-owls can sleep while on duty, and I knew, or hoped, that this young fellow would soon take his chance and drop asleep, when I could abstract that Cooper message from his files.
I did not have to wait for him to sleep; he did better than that for me; he went out of the office and left me inside alone, and I, moving vigorously, with one eye watched his every movement; he further favored me by turning all his lights down before leaving. I inferred that his purpose (as all was quiet on the wire) was to go to his bunk and take a regular sleep like a Christian and a white man, and not like a common soldier. I heard his footsteps on the long platform grow fainter and further off, and then the sound disappeared as he jumped onto solid ground. Now was my chance to get that message.
Realizing that it might be my only opportunity, I quickly determined to take the risk of his returning soon and, perchance, missing the message from his file—it being conspicuous because of its bulky appearance. I silently stole up to the desk and slipped the big piece of paper from his hook and put it—not in my pocket, not by a good deal—but I carelessly laid it "aside," where I would be able to reach it, and where the operator could find it if he should return and take a notion to hunt it up.
Pleased with my success, and emboldened by the continued absence of the operator, I thought of looking further for a copy of the message about "Banks" that I had heard come over the wires that afternoon, but abandoned it, remembering that, as it was a received message from Richmond, that probably there was no copy of it retained in the office and the original had been delivered.
Everything seemed to become oppressively as still and quiet as death outside—the office was dark; the instrument only ticked an occasional "call" from "Rd;" but as the operator was not there to answer the "call" the "Rd" operator no doubt thought him asleep, and with that feeling of fraternity and consideration for which the craft are noted, the man at "Rd" undoubtedly turned in himself. It's probable the feeble call was merely a desire to assure himself that the man at the other end was drowsy and readyto go to sleep. I understood all their little tricks. I had been there myself often, and, as I lay on that floor, I fully sympathized with the boys.
Feeling that it was to be almost my last hour in the telegraph service of the Rebels at Manassas, I became bold and reckless enough at my success, and the hope of getting away soon, to undertake a very foolish piece of business.
In the darkness, which comes just before daylight (when I should leave), I learned the Cooper message. At the same moment, almost involuntarily, I placed my hand on the "key" of the telegraph instrument and softly called, "Rd-Rd-Rd," several times; there was no answer to my first feeble call. The operator was probably asleep. I was turning away, abandoning the attempt, when I was thrilled through and through by the click of the instrument answering in a slow, sleepy way, "I-I-I," which is the affirmative signal in answer to a call for attention to receive a message. Glaring about wildly in the darkness in search of the voice of the Rebel spectre I had aroused, and who was speaking to me from Richmond, I took hold of the key and said, in nervous haste and desperation:
"What was that message you sent about Banks?"
There was a moment's silence. "Rd" did not seem to comprehend, and made the telegraphic signal for interrogation (?) or repeat. I said more deliberately:
"That message about Banks—is there anything important?"
"Oh, yes; why, you sent the answer to that."
"I forgot it."
"Yes," he answered; that "a Confederate Company could take care of Banks."
"O. K., O. K."
I had just laid down when footsteps were heard advancing toward the office door, and, in another moment, to my great relief, not the operator, but the colored servant or porter, tumbled in for an hour's sleep before it was time to sweep and clean up the office preparatory to the coming day's work. There was no more sleep for me. I was wide-awake to the importance of getting away from there as soon as possible. With the intent of throwing everybody off their guard, or to avoid any suspicion that might possibly attach to my sudden departure, I had made up, and had been careful totell all the listeners I could get the day previous, that I was going out to Fairfax C. H. to find some friends whom I had understood were in camp there, and I might be away all day and night. Also, that I was tired of civil life about the railroad and anxious to enter the army, and would do so if I found my friends.
I knew that the operator who had been on duty, or supposed to have been on duty that night, would be relieved by the regular day man in the morning, so, of course, the man coming on duty would not be likely to know anything about the night messages, or to miss any messages that he himself had not sent. I therefore took the last opportunity to collect from the files of the office several interesting "documents," which I knew would be valuable souvenirs to show my friends when I should get back to Washington.
Early in the morning I secured a note from the Superintendent requesting a pass through the army for myself, to enable me to look up a friend. With a few further words of good-by to one or two companions, with whom I had been so singularly associated for a few days, I left the place, with the expectation of being able to reach Washington the same night.
The distance was but twenty miles, I think, to Alexandria. My plan was, during the daytime to travel openly under protection of my pass, in a course leading to the front. From the best outlook that I could reach, I hoped to place myself convenient to some unguarded point, through which I could escape from the Rebels, and in safety reach our own lines under cover of the darkness. It was not a particularly dangerous undertaking at that time, because the Rebels—officers and soldiers—whatever may be said to the contrary, were demoralized, and had become quite careless and almost indifferent to their surroundings.
I was now going into the very heart of the Rebel army. I think that I saw all that was to be seen in a day's scout. They had, what I thought at the time, an awful lot of cannon; and cavalrymen in bright gray uniforms were flying about everywhere, mounted on their own fine horses, and stirring up a dust in such a way as to impress me with the idea that the woods were full of horsemen. The infantry camps were, for the most part, pleasantly located; in fact, everything looked brighter from the midst of the army than it had from its rear; but there was everywhere present—along the roads, or in the yards ofconvenient houses—the same groups of sick-looking soldiers and officers, who were probably awaiting their turn to get home to die.
There were numerous fortifications, earthworks and masked batteries to be seen, and when I got on to the battlefield of Bull Run what a disgusting smell filled the air; the very atmosphere seemed to be thick and heavy with the odor of half-buried and half-burned horses and mules, the bones of which were to be seen in many places covered with carrion crows, which would fly off making their ugly noises as they hovered about in a way to make the heart sick. You all know how we used to "bury" the dead artillery and cavalry horses, by simply piling a few fence-rails over the bodies and then setting fire to the pile, and then ride off and leave the coals of the fire baking the carcass. Whew! the smell of those half-burned old horses sticks in my nostrils even after twenty-five years.
I have not much to say of the many poor fellows whose toes were to be seen above ground; and now and then a piece of blue cloth showed through the thin covering of earth, and one hand laid above the grave, from which the fingers had been actually rotted or eaten off. It's an ugly subject to write or think about now, and I dismiss it from my mind with the same feeling of disgust and sickness that I experienced that day I walked along the fields and fences in August, 1861. Under the pretence of looking for a sick comrade, whom I pretended might have died at one of the hospitals or private houses in that direction, I moved about unmolested. There were plenty of civilian visitors beside myself, who were readily granted the privilege of going over the battlefield; their army friends were glad of an opportunity to escort them, so it was not thought at all out of the way for me to be prowling about there alone in search of a sick or perhaps a dead friend. In this way I got beyond the battlefield without any trouble, and along the railroad toward the station from which a road leads up to Fairfax Court House. Here I began to encounter some difficulties in the way of guards and sentries which were placed about the railroad bridges and at the cross-roads. Their purpose was, as a general thing, I imagined, to prevent their own soldiers from roaming or straggling about too much.
I knew that the railroad track would lead me in the most direct route to Alexandria, and soon to our army on that line; but I understood, also, that it would be more carefully patrolled and guarded than were the country roads; and for this reason I preferred the woods in which to make my final dash for liberty, and the Union, and home.
The critical moments in a scout's experience come just at this point—after successfully passing beyond one line andbeforereaching the other; then occurs the time when capture means his sure detection, either as a deserter or a spy, with its terrible punishment; and it is extremely difficult to tell from appearances whether those you meet or see are the friends you hope to find or the enemies you desire to leave behind.
I had traveled openly and boldly all day through the Rebel Army, carrying inside the lining of my cap the official papers I wished to get through. I had placed them in my hat because I calculated that, in case of a pursuit and probable capture, I might be able accidentally to "lose" the hat in a way that would not attract any particular attention, and a search of the regulation place for a spy to carry papers—in the shoes—would reveal nothing to implicate me. Night and darkness was rapidly coming on, yet I continued boldly to advance right along to the front, and, in the gloaming, I reached a little house setting back from the road, where I applied for supper and lodging. There were several soldiers about the yard, and officers were inside the house, as I judged from seeing their horses tied in the barnyard. An old bushwhacking proprietor, to whom I addressed myself, said that he couldn't keep me, as these officers had engaged the only accommodations he had. Turning to the officers I explained in a plausible manner that I had been hunting all day for a sick comrade, who had been left at a private house; that I was unable to find him—his name and regiment I was then able to furnish, knowing very well from their distance back, where I had located them, these men would not detect me—and as I was too tired and sick to go back that night, I must rest till morning, and so I would take a bed in the barn. I showed my request for a pass, across the face of which I had carefully endorsed in bold handwriting, in red ink, before leaving the office, the official words, "Approved, R. Chisholm, A. D. C."
That was a clear case of forgery, but "All's fair in love or war," and "desperate cases require desperate remedies."
The officers were of that kind who are easily impressed by an endorsement, especially if it is written across the face of the papers in red ink; and without any further question I was invited to sit down while a warm supper was being prepared for them.
I gathered from their conversation that the Rebel outposts were still some distance beyond. Though their own regiment was on this picket duty, their presence in the house was explained by the sickness of the younger of the two officers, the older having brought him in off the picket-line. There were also in addition to this line of pickets, a cavalry detachment that were supposed to be constantly moving up and down the roads in front of or between the two armies. So I was still a long way from our lines, and had yet some serious obstacles to overcome.
It wasn't exactly a pleasant evening for me, although I was so near home again. I lay there in that hay-loft or horse-shed, planning for the last dash for liberty; I knew that I must not attempt to move out of the barn until everybody was sound asleep; I had also some fear of a couple of dogs, that I'd seen running about the house rousing the folks when I should stir; I realized that I had a serious night's tramp ahead of me; my path must necessarily lead me over the fields and through the woods in tiresome detours that would be necessary in avoiding the road. For this reason I was anxious to make an early start from the barn; and just as soon as everything became quiet I silently groped my way out of the loft and slid myself down on the manure pile; crouched a moment to nervously listen and learn if the way was clear, and not hearing a sound of life, I started off cautiously on the last quarter-stretch of my night run for "liberty or death."
Keeping to the fields and woods, but in sight of the fence along the road as a guide, for some distance without meeting anyone or the hearing of a sound except the crickets and frogs, I became more emboldened and climbed over the fence into the road, striking out at a lively gait down a long hill. At the bottom of this hill, or rather in the valley between two hills, flowed a little stream which was spanned by one of those old-fashioned stone bridges. When I came close I discovered that a sentry was standing on it. I thought it was a picket; I could discern a moving object that looked to me through the darkness sufficiently like a soldier and his gun, tocause me to get back over the fence and make rapid tracks through the field to his flank. Almost exhausted, I found myself on the bank of the same little stream at a point where there was neither bridge or pickets.
I had learned enough about the military way of doing things to understand that, topographically, this little stream of water probably represented the Rebel picket-line, and I surmised that if I were able successfully to pass this point, that I should meet with no further danger from the infantry, and that cavalry could easily be avoided by keeping away from the roads, as I could travel over the routes where the horses could not be used.
I waded right in fearlessly; there was but little water running, but, oh dear! there was lots of mud concealed under the little bit of water, and when I pulled out, on the other side, I had gained several pounds in weight which had to be carried along up the next hill by a pair of legs already nearly exhausted. I got over that hill and passed down into another valley, and had, as before, become so emboldened by not meeting with anything in my path to relieve myself of the extra labor of climbing fences and crawling over logs, as well as scratching through briar bushes and tramping ploughed fields, I again took to the road.
All that day and most of the night I had now been going steadily in one direction, as I believed toward our lines, which I had figured could not be more than twenty miles distant from my starting point in the morning. Feeling that I could not be far from rest and glorious relief from the dreadful strain or suspense in which I had placed myself since leaving the barn, I recklessly pushed along the open road. Up to that point I could have retreated and saved myself, but now that I had gotten outside of the lines, no explanation would answer, if I were captured.
I was so fully satisfied that I was outside the Rebel lines and became so exhilarated with the feeling that came over me upon the thought that the next soldier I should meet would be our own boys in blue, that I started up the hill at a brisk dog-trot, feeling almost as fresh as when starting out in the morning.
This road was through a strip of dense pine woods. You all know how dismally dark the path seems which leads through a deep and dark, lonely wood on a cloudy night. I felt, as I forgedalong, like the ostrich with her head in the sand, that, as "I could see nobody, nobody could see me," and was feeling comfortable enough, notwithstanding the dreary loneliness of the time and place, to have whistled Yankee Doodle, even although I was not out of the woods.
I wasn't afraid of the Black-Horse Cavalry in that darkness and gloom, because I knew very well that afoot I could easily hear the approach of horses along the road in time to get out of the way by running to the adjacent dark woods. In my mind I planned my forthcoming interview with the surprised officers of our army, whom I would soon meet face to face.
It's a rule or law that scouts or spies must report direct to the General commanding, and not talk to anyone else. I was going to do better than this, and report to the President and Secretary of War, and show the evidence that I carried—that there were twenty-five per cent. of the Rebel Army sick with this epidemic, while probably another twenty-five per cent. were absent on sick leave or straggling, and no advance was possible, while an attack by Banks on their rear would demoralize them all badly.
"Halt!"
That's the word I heard come from the darkness and interrupted my plans, which shot through me as if it were uttered by a ghost or spirit from another world, and put me in a tremor of dismay. The voice came from the side of the road, andfrom behind. I was so taken by surprise that I could not at the instant see the object that spoke like a deathknell this dreadful word.