"Your changed complexions are to me a mirrorWhich shows me mine changed too; for I must beA party in this alteration, findingMyself thus altered with it."--SHAKESPEARE.
"Your changed complexions are to me a mirrorWhich shows me mine changed too; for I must beA party in this alteration, findingMyself thus altered with it."--SHAKESPEARE.
It would have been quite impossible for me to analyze my feeling for Dr. Khayme. His affection for me was unconcealed, and I was sure that no other man was received as his companion--not that he was distant, but that he was not approached. By nature I am affectionate, but at that time my emotions were severely and almost continually repressed by my will, because of a condition of nervous sensitiveness in regard to the possibility of an exposure of my peculiarity, so that I often wondered whether the Doctor fully understood the love and reverence I bore him.
On the morning following the day last spoken of--that is to say, on the morning of May 9th--Dr. Khayme rode off to the old William and Mary College, now become a hospital, leaving me to my devices, as he said, for some hours. I was sitting on a camp-stool in the open air, busily engaged in cleaning my gun and accoutrements, when I saw a man coming toward me. It was Willis.
"Where is the Doctor?" he asked.
"Gone to the hospital; want to see him?"
"That depends."
"He will be back in an hour or two. Boys all right?" I brought out a camp-stool; Willis remained standing.
"Oh, yes; what's left of 'em. Say, Berwick, what's this I hear about your being detailed for special work?"
"So," said I.
"What in the name o' God will you have to do?"
Willis's tone was not so friendly as I had known it to be; besides, I had observed that he called me Berwick rather than Jones. His attitude chilled me. I did not wish to talk to him about myself. We talk about personal matters to personal friends. I suppose, too, that I am peculiar in such things; at any rate, so great was my distaste to talking now with Willis on the subject in question that I did not succeed in hiding my feeling.
"Oh," says he, "you needn't say it if you don't want to."
"I feel," said I, "as though I should be speaking of personal matters, perhaps too personal."
"Well, I don't want to force myself on anybody," said he; then he asked, "How long are you going to stay with Dr. Khayme?"
It flashed upon me in an instant that Willis was jealous,--not of the little distinction that had been shown me,--but in regard to Lydia, and I felt a great desire to relieve him of any fear of my being or becoming his rival. Yet I did not see how I could introduce a subject so delicate. In order to gain time, I replied: "Well, I don't know exactly; I am subject to orders from brigade headquarters. If no orders come, I shall stay here a day or two; if we march, I suppose I shall march with the company, unless the division is in the rear."
"If the division marches and Dr. Khayme remains here, what will you do?" he asked.
This was increasing, I thought; to encourage him to proceed, I asked, "Why do you wish to know?"
"Because," said he, hesitatingly, "because I think you ought to show your hand."
"Please tell me exactly what you mean by that," said I.
"You know very well what I mean," he replied.
"Let us have no guesswork," said I; "if you want to say anything, this is a good time for saying it."
"Well, then, I will," said he; "you know that I like Miss Lydia."
"Well?"
"And I thought you were my friend."
"I am your friend."
"Then why do you get into my way?"
"If I am in your way, it is more than I know," said I; "what would you have me to do?"
"If you are my friend, you will keep out of my way."
"Do you mean to say that I ought not to visit the Doctor?"
"If you visit the Doctor, you ought to make it plain to him why you visit him."
"Sergeant," said I; "Dr. Khayme knows very well why I visit him. I have no idea that he considers me a bidder for his daughter."
"Well; you may be right, and then again, you may be wrong."
"And you would have me renounce Dr. Khayme's society in order to favour your hopes?"
"I did not say that. You are perfectly welcome to Dr. Khayme's company; but I do think that you ought not to let him believe that you want Miss Lydia."
"Shall I tell him that you say that?"
"I can paddle my own canoe; you are not my mouthpiece," he replied angrily.
"Then would you have me tell him that I do not want Miss Lydia?"
"Tell him what you like, or keep silent if you like; all I've got to say is that if you are my friend you will not stand in my way."
"It seems to me, Sergeant," said I, "that you are forcing me into a very delicate position. For me to go to Dr. Khayme and explain to him that my attachment to him is not a piece of hypocrisy played by me in order to win his daughter, would not be satisfactory to the Doctor or to me, or even to Miss Khayme."
"Why not to her?" he asked abruptly.
"Because my explanation could not be made except upon my assumption that she supposes me a suitor; it would amount to my saying, 'I don't want you,' and more than that, as you can easily see. I decline to put myself into such a position. I prefer to assume that she does not regard me as a suitor, and that the Doctor receives me only as an old pupil. I beg you to stay here until the Doctor comes, and talk to him yourself. I can promise you one thing: I shall not hinder you; I'll give you a clear field."
"Do you mean to say that you will give me a clear field with Miss Lydia?"
"Not exactly that, but very nearly. You have no right to expect me to say to anybody that Miss Lydia does not attract me, and it would be silly, presumptuous, conceited in me to yield what I have not. I can tell you this: I have not spoken a word to Miss Lydia that I would not speak to any woman, or to any man for that matter, and I can say that I have not one degree of claim upon her."
"Then you will keep out of my way?"
"I repeat that I am not in your way. If I should say that I will keep out of your way, I would imply what is not true; the young lady is absolutely free so far as I am concerned."
At this point the Doctor came up. He shook hands with Willis and went into his tent. I urged Willis to follow, but he would not. I offered to lead the conversation into the matter in which he was so greatly interested, but he would not consent.
The Doctor reappeared. "Lydia will be here to-night," he said.
"You surprise me, Doctor."
"Yes; but I am now pretty sure that we shall be here for a week to come, and we shall not move our camp before the rear division moves. Lydia will find enough to do here."
Willis soon took his leave. I accompanied him for a short distance; on parting with him I told him that he might expect to see me again at night.
"What!" said he; "you are going to leave the Doctor?"
"Yes," I replied; "expect me to-night."
Willis looked puzzled; he did not know what to say, and said nothing.
When I entered the Doctor's tent, I found him busily writing. He looked up, then went on with his work. Presently, still continuing to write, he said, "So Willis is angry."
"Why do you say so, Doctor?"
"Anybody could have seen it in his manner," said he.
I tried to evade. "He was out of sorts," said I.
"What does 'out of sorts' mean?" asked the Doctor. Then, before I could reply, he continued: "I have often thought of that expression; it is a good one; it means to say gloomy, depressed, mentally unwell, physically ill perhaps. Yes, Willis is out of sorts. Out of sorts means mixed, unclassified, unassorted, having one's functions disordered. One who cannot separate his functions distinctly is unwell and, necessarily, miserable. Willis showed signs of dementia; his brain is not acting right. I think I can cure him."
I said nothing. In the Doctor's tone there was not a shade of sarcasm.
He continued: "Perfect sanity would be impossible to predicate of any individual; doubtless there are perfectly sane persons, that is, sane at times, but to find them would be like finding the traditional needle. I suppose our good friend Willis would rank higher than the average, after all is said."
"Willis is a good soldier," said I, "and a good sergeant."
"Yes, no doubt he is; he ought to know that he is just the man for a soldier and a sergeant, and be content."
Now, of course, I knew that Dr. Khayme, by his clear knowledge of nature, not to say more, was able to read Willis; but up to this time I had not suspected that Willis's hopes in regard to Lydia had alarmed or offended my learned friend; so I continued to beat round the subject.
"I cannot see," said I, "why Willis might not aspire to a commission. If the war continues, there will be many chances for promotion."
"The war will continue," he said, "and Willis may win a commission. The difference between a lieutenant and a sergeant is greater in pay than in qualification; in fact, a good orderly-sergeant is a rarer man than a good captain. Let Willis have his commission. Let that be his ambition, if he persists in murdering people."
The Doctor was yet writing busily. I wondered whether his words were intended as a hint for me to speak to Willis; of course I could do nothing of the kind. I felt that this whole affair was very delicate. Willis had gone so far as to make me infer that he was very much afraid of me: why? Could it be possible that he saw more than I could see? No, that was a suggestion of mere vanity; he simply dreaded Dr. Khayme's well-known partiality for me; he feared, not me, but the Doctor. I was uneasy. I examined myself; I thought of my past conduct in regard to Lydia, and found nothing to condemn. I had been rather more distant, I thought, than was necessary. I must preserve this distance.
"Doctor," said I, "good-by till to-morrow; I shall stay with the company to-night."
He looked up. "You will see Willis?"
"Yes, sir; I suppose so."
"You might say to him, if you think well, that I thought he left us rather abruptly to-day, and that I don't think he is very well."
"I hope to see you again to-morrow, Doctor."
"Very well, my boy; good-by till to-morrow; you will find me here by ten o'clock."
When I reached the company I did not see Willis; he was off on duty somewhere. On the next morning, however, he came in, and everything passed in the friendliest way possible, at first. Evidently he was pleased with me for absenting myself from Lydia. But he soon learned that I was to return to the Sanitary Camp, and his countenance changed at once.
"What am I to think of you?" he asked.
"I trust you will think well of me," I replied; "I am doing you no wrong. You are not well. The Doctor noticed it."
"He said that I was not well?"
"Yes."
"Well, he is wrong for once; I am as well as I ever was in my life."
"He said you left very suddenly yesterday."
"I suppose I did leave suddenly; but I saw no reason to remain longer."
"Willis," said I, "let us talk seriously. Why do you not speak to Miss Lydia and her father? Why not end this matter one way or the other?"
"I haven't seen Miss Lydia since you left us in February," said he; "how can I speak to her?"
"But you can speak to Dr. Khayme."
"Yes, I could speak to Dr. Khayme, but I don't consider him the one to speak to first, and to tell you the truth I'm afraid of it. It's got to be done, but I feel that I have no chance; that's what's hurting me."
"Then I'd have it over with, as soon as possible," said I.
"That's easier said than done; but I intend to have it over; it's doing me no good. I wish I'd never seen her."
"Why don't you write?"
"I've thought of that, but I concluded I wouldn't. It looked cowardly not to face the music."
"My dear fellow," said I, "there is no cowardice in it at all. You ought to do it, or else bury the whole thing, and I don't suppose you can do that."
"No, I can't do that; if I don't see her shortly, I shall write."
I was very glad to hear this. From what he had just said, coupled with my knowledge of the Doctor and of Lydia, I did not think his chance worth a penny, and I felt certain that the best thing for him to do was to bring matters to a conclusion. He would recover sooner.
At ten o'clock I was with Dr. Khayme. He told me that Lydia had arrived in the night, and that he had just accompanied her to the hospital.
"And how is our friend Willis to-day?" he asked; "is he a little less out of sorts?"
"He is friendly to-day, Doctor."
"Did you tell him that I remarked about his abrupt manner?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. I now I want to talk to you about your future work, Jones. I have thought of your suggestion that you wear Confederate uniform, while scouting."
"And you do not oppose it?"
"Decide for yourself. I cannot conscientiously take part in war; all I can do is to endeavour to modify its evil, and try to turn it to good."
The Doctor talked long and deeply upon these matters, and ended by saying that he would get me Confederate clothing from some wounded prisoner. Then he began a discussion of the principles which the respective sections were fighting for.
"Doctor," said I; "awhile ago, when I was urging that a scout would be of greater service to his cause if he disguised himself, as my friend Jones does, you seemed to doubt my assertion that the best thing for the rebels was their quick defeat."
"I remember it."
"Please tell me what you have in mind."
"It is this, Jones: America must be united, or else dis-severed. I believe in the world-idea; although I condemn this war, I believe in the Union. The difference between us is, that I do not believe and you do believe that the way to preserve the Union is going to war. But war has come. Now, since it has come, I think I can see that an easy defeat of the Southern armies will not bring about a wholesome reunion. For the people of the two sections to live in harmony, there must be mutual respect, and there must be self-respect. An easy triumph over the South would cause the North great vainglory and the South great humiliation. Granting war, it should be such as to effect as much good and as little harm as possible. The South, if she ever comes back into the Union respecting herself, must be exhausted by war; she must be able to know that she did all she could, and the North must know that the South proved herself the equal of the North in everything manly and respectable. So I say that I should fear a future Union founded upon an easy submission; there would be scorners and scorned--not friends."
"The respects thereof are nice and trivial,All circumstances well considered."--SHAKESPEARE.
"The respects thereof are nice and trivial,All circumstances well considered."--SHAKESPEARE.
For some days the brigade remained near Williamsburg. We learned that a part of the army had gone up York River by water, and was encamped near White House, and that General McClellan's headquarters were at or near that place.
Then the division moved and camped near Roper's Church. We heard that the rebels had destroyed theMerrimac. Heavy rains fell. Hooker's division was still in reserve, and had little to do except to mount camp guard. I had nothing to do. We had left Dr. Khayme in his camp near Williamsburg.
I had not seen Lydia, Willis's manner changed from nervousness to melancholy. It was a week before he told me that he had written to Miss Lydia, and had been refused. The poor fellow had a hard time of it, but he fought himself hard, and I think I helped him a little by taking him into my confidence in regard to my own troubles. I was moved to do this by the belief that, if I should tell Willis about my peculiarities, which in my opinion would make marriage a crime for me, he would find companionship in sorrow where he had thought to find rivalry, and cease to think entirely of his own unhappiness. I was not wrong; he seemed to appreciate my intention and to be softened. I endeavoured also to stir up his ambition as a soldier, and had the great pleasure of seeing him begin seriously to study tactics and even strategy.
From Roper's Church we moved by short marches in rear of the other divisions of the army, until, on the 21st, we were near the Chickahominy, and still in reserve. Here I received a note from the Doctor, who informed me that his camp was just in our rear. I went at once.
"Well," said he, "how do you like doing nothing?"
"I haven't quite tired of it yet," I said.
"Your regiment has had a good rest."
"I wonder how much longer we shall be held in reserve."
"A good while yet, to judge from what I can hear," he said. "I am authorized to move to the right, and of course that means that I shall be in greater demand there."
"I wish I could go with you," said I.
"Why should you hesitate to do so?" he asked; "what are your orders?"
"There has been no change. I have no orders at all except to keep the adjutant of the Eleventh informed as to my whereabouts."
"How frequently must you report in person?"
"There was nothing said about that. I suppose a note will do," said I.
"Your division was so severely handled at Williamsburg that I cannot think it will be brought into action soon unless there should be a general engagement. If you can report in writing every two or three days, you need not limit your work or your presence to any particular part of the line."
"But the right must be many miles from our division."
"No," said the Doctor; "from Hooker's division to your present right is not more than five miles; the distance will be greater, though, in a few days."
"What is going on, Doctor?"
"McDowell is at Fredericksburg, with a large Confederate force in his front, and--but let me get a map and show you the situation."
He went to a small chest and brought out a map, which he spread on a camp-bed.
"Here you see Fredericksburg; McDowell is just south of it. Here, about this point, called Guiney's, is a Confederate division under General Anderson. McClellan has urged Washington to reënforce his right by ordering McDowell to march, thus," describing almost a semicircle which began by going south, then southeast, then southwest; "that would place McDowell on McClellan's right flank, here. Now, if McDowell reënforces McClellan, this entire army cannot cross the Chickahominy, and if McDowell does not reënforce McClellan, this entire army cannot cross the Chickahominy."
"Then in neither event can this army take Richmond," said I.
"Don't go too fast; I am speaking of movements for the next ten days; afterward, new combinations may be made. In case McDowell comes, it will take ten days for his movement to be completed, and your right wing would move to meet him if need be, rather than move forward and leave him. To move forward would expose McDowell's flank to the Confederates near Guiney's, and it is feared that Jackson is not far from them. Am I clear?"
"Yes; it seems clear that our right will not cross; but suppose McDowell does not come."
"In that case," said the Doctor, "for McClellan's right to cross the Chickahominy would be absurd, for the reason that a Confederate force, supposed to be from Jackson's army, has nearly reached Hanover Court-House--here--in the rear of your right, if you advance; besides, to cross the Chickahominy with the whole army would endanger your supplies. You see, this Chickahominy River is an awkward thing to cross; if it should rise suddenly, the army on the south side might starve before the men could get rations; all that the Confederates would have to do would be to prevent wagon trains from crossing the bridges. And another thing--defeat, with the river behind the army, would mean destruction. McClellan will not cross his army; he will throw only his left across."
"But why should he cross with any at all? It seems to me that with a wing on either side, he would be in very great danger of being beaten in detail."
"You are right in that. But he feels compelled to do something; he makes a show of advancing, in order to keep up appearances; the war department already thinks he has lost too much time and has shown too little aggressiveness. McClellan is right in preferring the James River as a base, for he could there have a river on either flank, and his base would be protected by the fleet; but this theory was overthrown at first by theMerrimac, and now that she is out of the way the clamour of the war department against delay prevents a change of base. So McClellan accepts the York as his base, but prepares, or at least seems to prepare, for a change to the James, by throwing forward his left."
"But the left has not been thrown forward."
"It will be done shortly."
"What would happen if McDowell should not be ordered to reënforce us?"
"McDowell has already been ordered to reënforce McClellan, and the order has been countermanded. The Washington authorities fear to uncover Washington on account of Jackson's presence in the Shenandoah Valley. If McDowell remains near Fredericksburg 'for good,' as we used to say in South Carolina, McClellan will be likely to get everything in readiness, then wait for his opportunity, and throw his right wing also across the Chickahominy, with the purpose of ending the campaign in a general engagement before his supplies are endangered. But this will take time. So I say that no matter what happens, except one thing, there will be nothing done by Hooker for ten days; he will stay in reserve."
"What is that one thing which you except, Doctor?"
"A general attack by the Confederates."
"And you think that is possible?"
"Always possible. The Confederates are quick to attack." "And you think they are ready to attack?"
"No; I think there is no reason to expect an attack soon, at any rate a general attack; but when McClellan throws his left wing over the Chickahominy, the Confederates may attack then."
"Then I ought to be with my regiment," said I.
"Yes," said he; "unless your regiment does not need you, or unless somebody else needs you more. Hooker will not be engaged unless your whole left is engaged; you may depend upon that. There is no possibility of an action for a week to come, and unless the Confederates attack, there will be no action for a month."
"Then we ought by all means to learn whether the Confederates intend to attack," said I.
"That is the conclusion of the argument," said the Doctor; "you can serve your cause better in that way than in any other way. You are free to go and come on any part of your lines. The right is the place for you."
"How do you learn all these things, Doctor?"
"By this and that; it requires no great wisdom to enable any one to see that both armies are in need of delay. McClellan is begging every day for reënforcements; the Confederates are waiting and are being reënforced."
"And you are firm in your opinion that I shall risk nothing by going with you?"
"I am sure that you will risk nothing so far as absence from your regiment is concerned, and I am equally sure that your opportunities for service will be better."
"In case I go with you to the right, I must find a means of reporting to the adjutant almost daily."
"That will be done easily enough; in any emergency I can send a man."
It was arranged, therefore, that I should remain with Dr. Khayme, who, on the 22d, moved his camp far to the right, in rear of General Porter's command, which we found supporting Franklin, whose troops were nearer the Chickahominy and behind New Bridge.
Before leaving the regiment I reported to the adjutant, telling him where I could be found at need, and promising to send in further reports if Dr. Khayme's camp should be moved. At this period of the campaign there was but little activity anywhere along our lines; in fact, the lines had not been fully developed, and, as there was a difficult stream between us and the enemy, there was no room for enterprise. Here and there a reconnaissance would be made in order to learn something of the position of the rebels on the south side of the river, but such reconnaissances consisted mostly in merely moving small bodies of our troops up to the swamp and getting them fired upon by the Confederate artillery posted on the hills beyond the Chickahominy. On this day, the 22d, while Dr. Khayme and I were at dinner, we could hear the sounds of guns in two places, but only a few shots.
"I have your uniform, Jones," said the Doctor.
"From a wounded prisoner?"
"Yes; but you need fear nothing. It has seen hard service, but I have had it thoroughly cleaned. It is not the regulation uniform, perhaps, since it has the South Carolina State button, but in everything else it is the correct thing."
"I hope I shall not need it soon," said I.
"Why? Should you not wish to end this miserable affair as quickly as possible?"
"Oh, of course; but I shall not put on rebel clothing as long as I can do as well with my own,"
"There is going to be some murderous work up the river--or somewhere on your right--in a day or two," said the Doctor. "General Butterfield has given stringent orders for no man to leave camp for an hour."
"Who is General Butterfield?"
"He commands a brigade in Porter's corps. We are just in rear of his camp--Morell's division."
"And you suppose that his order indicates the situation here?"
"Yes; evidently your troops are prepared to move. I am almost sorry that I have sent for Lydia to come."
"And they will move to the right?"
"Unquestionably; there is no longer any doubt that your right flank is threatened."
"Then why not fall back to the left?"
"McClellan cannot afford personally to make any movement that would look like retreat. Your right is threatened, and your right will hold; it may attack."
"Doctor, why is it that you always say your instead of our?"
"Because I am neutral," said the Doctor.
"But your sympathies are with us."
"Only in part; the Southern cause is weak through slavery, but strong in many other points. I think we have discussed this before."
That we had done so did not prevent us from discussing it again. The Doctor seemed never to tire of presenting arguments for the complete abolition of slavery, while his even balance of mind allowed him to sympathize keenly with the political contention of the South.
We had been talking for half an hour or so, when we heard some one approaching.
The Doctor rose and admitted an officer. I saluted; then I was presented to Captain Auchmuty, of General Morell's staff.
"I am afraid that my visit will not prove pleasant, Doctor," he said. "General Morell has learned that Mr. Berwick is here, and proposes to borrow him, if possible."
The captain looked first at Dr. Khayme, and then at me; the Doctor looked at me; I looked at the ground.
The captain continued, "Of course, General Morell understands that he is asking a favour rather than giving an order; but if he knows the circumstances, he believes you are ready to go anywhere you may be needed."
"General Morell is very kind," said I; "may I know what work is required of me?"
"Nothing is required; that is literally true." said Captain Auchmuty. "General Morell asks a favour; if you will be so good as to accompany me to his tent, you shall have the matter explained."
The courtesy with which General Morell was treating me--for he could just as easily have sent for me by his orderly--made me think myself his debtor.
"I will go with you, Captain," said I; "good-by, Doctor."
"No," said the captain; "you will not be taken so suddenly. I promise that you may return in an hour."
"Here stand, my lords; and send discoverers forth,To know the number of our enemies."--SHAKESPEARE.
"Here stand, my lords; and send discoverers forth,To know the number of our enemies."--SHAKESPEARE.
In General Morell's tent were two officers, afterward known to me as Generals Morell and Butterfield. It was not yet quite dark.
The officer who had conducted me, presented me to General Morell. In the conversation which followed, General Butterfield seemed greatly interested, but took no part at all.
General Morell spoke kindly to me. "I have sent for you," he said, "because I am told that you are faithful, and that you are prudent as well as accurate. We need information, and I hope you will get it for us."
"I am willing to do my best, General," said I, "provided that my absence is explained to General Grover's satisfaction."
"It is General Grover himself who recommends you," said he; "he is willing to let us profit by your services while his brigade is likely to remain inactive. I will show you his note."
Captain Auchmuty handed me an open note; I read from General Grover the expression used by General Morell.
"This is perfectly satisfactory, General," I said; "I will do my best for you."
"No man can do more. Now, come here. Look at this map, which you will take with you if you wish."
The general moved his seat up to a camp-bed, on which he spread the map. I was standing; he made me take a seat near him.
"First, I will show you generally what I want you to do; how you are to do it, you must decide for yourself. Here," said he, putting the point of his pencil on the map, "here is where we are now. Up here is Hanover Junction, with Hanover Court-House several miles this side--about this spot. You are to get to both places and find out if the enemy is at either, or both, and in what force. If he is not at either place, you are to move along the railroad in the direction of Richmond, until you find the enemy."
"Are there not two railroads at Hanover Junction, General?"
"Yes, the Virginia Central and the Richmond and Fredericksburg; they cross at the Junction."
"Which railroad shall I follow?"
"Ah, I see you are careful. It will be well for you to learn something of the situation on both of them; but take the Central if you are compelled to choose--the one nearest to us."
"Well, sir."
"If no enemy is found within eight or ten miles of the Junction, you need not trouble yourself further; but if he is found in say less than eight miles of the Junction, you are to diligently get all the knowledge you can of his position, his force in all arms, and, if possible, his purposes."
"I suppose that by the enemy you mean some considerable body, not a mere scouting party."
"Yes, of course. Hunt for big game. Don't bother with raiders or foragers."
"The Junction seems to be on the other side of the Pamunkey River," said I.
"Yes; it is between the North Anna and the South Anna, which form the Pamunkey a few miles below the Junction."
"Then, supposing that I find the rebels in force at Hanover Court-House, would there be any need for me to go on to the Junction?"
"None at all," said the general; "you would only be losing time; in case you find the enemy in force anywhere, you must return and inform us just as soon as you can ascertain his strength. But if you find no enemy at Hanover Court-House, or near it, or even if you find a small force, such as a party of cavalry, you should try to get to the Junction."
"Very well, General; how long do you expect me to be gone?"
"I can give you four days at the outside."
"Counting to-night?"
"No; beginning to-morrow. I shall expect you by the morning of the 27th, and shall hope to see you earlier."
"I shall not wish to be delayed," said I.
"You shall have horses; relays if you wish," said he.
"In returning shall I report to any officer I first chance to meet?" I asked.
"No; not unless you know the enemy to be particularly active; in that case, use your judgment; of course you would not let any force of ours run the risk of being surprised, but, all things equal, better reserve your report for me."
"And shall I find you here, sir?"
"If I am not here, you may report to General Butterfield; if this command moves, I will leave orders for you."
"At about what point will my danger begin, General?"
"You will be in danger from scouting parties of the rebel cavalry from the moment when you reach this point," putting his pencil on a spot marked Old Church, "and you will be delayed in getting around them perhaps. You have a full day to Hanover Court-House, and another day to the Junction, if you find that you must go there; that gives you two days more; but if you find the enemy at the Court-House, you may get back in three days."
"Why should I go by Old Church?"
"Well, it seems longer, but it will prove shorter in the end; the country between Old Church and Mechanicsville is neutral ground, and you would be delayed in going through it."
"Am I to report the conditions between Old Church and Hanover Court-House?"
"Take no time for that, but impress the character of the roads and the profile of the country on your mind--I mean in regard to military obstacles; of course if you find rebels in there, a force, I mean--look into them."
"Well, sir, I am ready."
"You may have everything you want; as many men as you want, mounted or afoot; can you start to-morrow morning, Berwick?"
"Yes, General; by daylight I want to be at Old Church. Please have a good man to report to me two hours before day."
"Mounted?"
"Yes, sir; and with a led saddle horse and three days' rations and corn--or oats would be better. Let him come armed."
"Very well, Berwick. Is that all?"
"Yes, sir; I think that will do. I suppose the man will know the road to Old Church."
"If not, I will send a guide along. Now, Berwick, good night, and good luck. You have my thanks, and you shall have more if your success will justify it."
"Good night, General. I will do my best."
Dr. Khayme argued that I should not make this venture in disguise, and I had great doubt what to do; however, I at last compromised matters by deciding to take the Confederate uniform to be used in case I should need it. A thought occurred to me: "Doctor," said I, "these palmetto buttons might prove a bad thing. Suppose I should get into a brigade of Georgians occupying some position where there are no other troops; what would a Carolinian be doing amongst them?"
"I have provided for that," said the Doctor; "you see that these buttons are fastened with rings; here are others that are smooth: all you have to do is to change when you wish--it takes but a few moments. However, nobody would notice your buttons unless you should be within six feet of him and in broad daylight."
"Yet I think it would be better to change now," said I; "there are more Confederates than Carolinians."
The Doctor assented, and we made the change. I put the palmetto buttons into my haversack.
Before I slept everything had been prepared for the journey. I studied the map carefully and left it with the Doctor. The gray clothing was wrapped in a gum-blanket, to be strapped to the saddle. My escort was expected to provide for everything else. I decided to wear a black soft hat of the Doctor's, whose head was as big as mine, although he weighed about half as much as I did. My own shoes were coarse enough, and of no peculiar make. In my pockets I put nothing except a knife, some Confederate money, some silver coin, and a ten-dollar note of the bank of Hamburg, South Carolina--a note which Dr. Khayme possessed and which he insisted on my taking. There would be nothing on me to show that I was a Union soldier, except my uniform. I would go unarmed.
Before daylight I was aroused. My man was waiting for me outside the tent. I intended to slip out without disturbing the Doctor, but he was already awake. He pressed my hand, but said not a word.
The man and I mounted and took the road, he leading.
"Do you know the way to Old Church?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," said he.
"What is your name?"
"Jones, sir; don't you know me?"
"What? My friend of the black horse?"
"Yes, sir."
"But I believe you are in blue this time."
"Yes; I got no orders."
I was glad to have Jones; he was a self-reliant man, I had already had occasion to know.
We marched rapidly, Jones always in the lead. The air was fine. The morning star shone tranquil on our right. Vega glittered overhead, and Capella in the far northeast, while at our front the handle of the Dipper cut the horizon. The atmosphere was so pure that I looked for the Pleiades, to count them; they had not risen.
We passed at first along a road on either side of which troops lay in bivouac, with here and there the tent of some field officer; then parks of artillery showed in the fields; then long lines of wagons, with horses and mules picketed behind. Occasionally we met a horseman, but nothing was said to him or by him.
Now the encampment was behind us, and we rode along a lane where nothing was seen except fields and woods.
"Jones," said I; "are you furnished with credentials?"
"Yes, sir," he replied; "if our pickets or patrols stop us, I can satisfy them."
At daylight we were halted. Jones rode forward alone, then returned and explained that our post would admit us. We passed a mounted vedette, and then went on for a few hundred yards until we came to a crossroad.
"We are at Old Church," said Jones.
"And we have nobody here?" I asked.
"Yes, sir; our men are over there, but I suppose we are to take the left here; we have another picket-post half a mile up the road."
"Then we will stop with them and breakfast," said I. We took to the left--toward the west. At the picket-post the road forked; a blacksmith's shop was at the north of the road. The sun had nearly risen.
The picket consisted of a squad of cavalry under Lieutenant Russell. He gave me all the information he could. The right-hand road, by the blacksmith's shop, went across the Totopotomoy Creek near its mouth, he said, and then went on to the Pamunkey River, and at the place where it crossed the Pamunkey another road came in, running down the river from Hanover Court-House. He was sure that the road which came in was the road from Hanover to the ferry at Hanover Old Town; he believed the ferry had not yet been destroyed. This agreed with the map. I asked him where the left-hand road went. He said he thought it was the main road to Hanover Court-House; that it ran away from the river for a considerable distance, but united higher up with the river road. This also agreed with the map. I had scratched on the lining of my hat the several roads given on the map as the roads from Old Church to Hanover Court-House, so that, in case my memory should flag, I could have some resource, but I found that I could remember without uncovering.
The lieutenant could tell me little concerning distances; what he knew did not disaccord with my small knowledge. I asked him if he knew where the nearest post of the enemy was now. "They are coming and going," said he; "one day they will be moving, and then a day will pass without our hearing of them. If they have a post anywhere, I don't know it."
"And there are none of our men beyond this point?"
"No--nobody at all," said he.
Jones had given the horses a mouthful of oats, and we had swallowed our breakfast, the lieutenant kindly giving us coffee. For several reasons I thought it best to take the road to the left: first, it was away from the river, which the rebels were supposed to be watching closely; second, the distance seemed not so great; and, third, it was said to traverse a less populous region.
I had now to determine the order of our advance, and decided that we should ride forward alternately, at least until we should strike the crossing of the Totopotomoy Creek; so I halted Jones, rode forward for fifty yards or so, then stopped and beckoned to him to come on. As he went by me I told him to continue to advance until he should reach, a turn in the road; then he should halt and let me pass him. At the first stop he made I saw with pleasure that he had the good judgment to halt on the side of the road amongst the bushes. I now rode up to him in turn, and paused before passing.
"You have kept your eyes on the stretch, in front?" I asked.
"Yes, sir."
"And have seen nothing?"
"No, sir; not a thing."
"You understand why we advance in this manner?"
"Yes; I can watch for you, and you can watch for me, and both can watch for both."
"Yes, and not only that. We can hardly both be caught at the same time; one of us might be left to tell the tale."
I went on by. The road here ran through woods, but shortly a field was seen in front, with a house at the left of the road, and I changed tactics. When Jones had reached me, we rode together through the field, went on quickly past the house, and on to another thicket, in the edge of which we found a school-house; but just before reaching the thicket I made Jones follow me at the distance of some forty yards. I had made this change of procedure because I had been able to see that there was nobody in the stretch of road passing the house, and I thought it better for two at once to be exposed to possible view from the house for a minute than one each for a minute.
We had not seen a soul.
We again proceeded according to our first programme, I riding forward for fifty yards or so, and Jones passing me, and alternately thus until we saw, just beyond us, a road coming into ours from the southwest. On the north of our road, and about two hundred and fifty yards from the spot where we had halted, was a farmhouse, which I supposed was the Linney house marked on the map. The road at the left, I knew from the map, went straight to Mechanicsville and thence to Richmond, and I suspected that it was frequently patrolled by the rebel cavalry. We remained in hiding at a short distance from the house, and consulted. I feared to pass openly on the road--two roads, in fact--opposite the house, for discovery and pursuit at this time would mean the abortion of the whole enterprise. Every family in this section could reasonably be supposed to have furnished men to the Confederate army near by and, if we should be seen by any person whomsoever, there was great probability that our presence would be at once divulged to the nearest rebels. The result of our consultation was our turning back. We rode down toward Old Church until we came to a forest stretching north of the road, which we now left, and made through the woods a circuit of the Linney house, and reached the Hanover road again in the low grounds of Totopotomoy Creek. We had seen no one. The creek bottom was covered with forest and dense undergrowth. We crossed the creek some distance below the road, and kept in the woods for a mile without having to venture into the open.
It was about nine o'clock; we had made something like three miles since we had left Old Church.
In order to get beyond the next crossroad, it was evident that we must run some risk of being seen from four directions at once, or else we must flank the crossing.
By diverging to the right, we found woods to conceal us all the way until we were in sight of the crossroad. I dismounted, and bidding Jones remain, crept forward until I could see both ways, up and down, on the road. There were houses at my left--some two hundred yards off, and but indistinctly seen through the trees--on both sides of the road, but no person was visible. Just at my right the road sank between two elevations. I went to the hollow and found that from this position the houses could not be seen. I went back to Jones, and together we led our horses across the road through the hollow. We mounted and rode rapidly away through the woods, and reached the Hanover road at a point two miles or more beyond the Linney house.
We now felt that if there was any post of rebels in these parts it would be found behind Crump's Creek, which was perhaps half a mile at our left, running north into the Pamunkey. We turned to the left and made for Crump's Creek. We found an easy crossing, and we soon reached the Hanover river road, within four miles, I thought, of Hanover Court-House.
And now our danger was really to become immediate, and our fear oppressive. We were in sight of the main road running from Hanover Court-House down the Pamunkey--a road that was no doubt covered by the enemy's plans, and on which bodies of his cavalry frequently operated. If the force at Hanover Court-House, or the Junction, were seeking to get to the rear of McClellan's right wing, this would be the road by which it would march; this road then, beyond all question, was constantly watched, and there was strong probability that rebels were kept posted in good positions upon it. But for the fact that I might find it necessary to reach the Junction, I should now have gone forward afoot.
I decided to use still greater circumspection in going farther forward, and to get near the enemy's post, if there should prove to be one, at the Court-House, only after nightfall. Thus we had from ten o'clock until dark--nine hours or more--in which to make our gradual approach.
The country was so diversified with woods and fields that we found it always possible to keep within shelter. When we lost sight of the road, Jones or I would climb a tree. By making great detours we went around every field, consuming much time, it is true, but we had plenty of time. We avoided every habitation, and chose the thickest of the woods and the deepest of the hollows, and so conducted our advance that, remarkable as it may seem, from the time we left our outposts at Old Church until we came in sight of the enemy near Hanover Court-House, we did not see a human being, though the distance traversed must have been fully twelve miles. Of course, I knew that it was very likely that we ourselves had been seen by more than one frightened inhabitant, but it was my care to keep at such a distance from every dwelling house that no one there could tell whether we were friend or enemy.
At noon we took our ease in a hollow in the midst of a thicket. While we were resting we heard far to our rear a distant sound that resembled the discharge of artillery. We learned afterward that the sound came from Mechanicsville, occupied this day by the advance of McClellan's right.
About two o'clock we again set out. We climbed a hill from which we could see over a considerable stretch of country. The field in front of us was large; it would require a long detour to avoid the open space. Still, we were not pressed for time, and I was determined to be prudent. The only question was whether we should flank the field at the right or at the left. From our point of observation, it seemed to me that the field in front stretched sufficiently far in the north to reach the Hanover road; if this were true our only course was by the left. To be as nearly sure as possible, I sent Jones up a tree. I regretted very much that I had not brought a good field-glass, and wondered why General Morrell had not thought of it. Jones remained in the tree a long time; I had forbidden him speaking, lest the sound of his voice should reach the ear of some unseen enemy. When he came down he said that the road did go through the field and that there were men in the road.
I now climbed the tree in my turn, and saw very distinctly, not more than half a mile away, a small body of men in the road. They seemed to be infantry and to be stationary; but while I was looking they began to move in the direction of Hanover Court-House. There were bushes on the sides of the road where they were; soon they passed beyond the bushes, and I could see that the men were mounted. I watched them until they were lost to sight where the road entered the woods beyond. I had counted eleven; I supposed there were ten men under command of an officer.
It was now clear that we must flank the big field on its left. We acted with great caution. The fence stretched far beyond the corner of the field; we let down the fence, led our horses in, then put up the gap, and rode into the woods on the edge of the field. In some places the undergrowth was low, and we feared that our heads might be seen above our horses; in such places we dismounted. We passed at a distance one or two small houses--not dwellings, we thought, but field barns or cribs. At length we reached the western side of the field; we had gained greatly in position, though we were but little nearer to Hanover.
We supposed that we were almost half a mile from the road, and that we were in no pressing danger. When we had gone north about a quarter of a mile we dismounted, and while Jones remained with the horses, I crept through the woods until I could see the road. It was deserted. I crept nearer and nearer until I was almost on its edge; sheltered by the bushes I could see a long distance either way. At my left was a house, some two hundred yards away and on the far side of the road. I watched the house. The men I had seen in the road might have stopped in the house; there might be--indeed, there ought to be--an outpost near me, and this house would naturally be visited very often. But I saw nothing, and at last crept back into the woods for a short distance, and advanced again parallel with the road, until I came, as I supposed, opposite the house; then I crept up to the road again. I could now see the yard in front of the house, and even through the house from front to back door; it was a small house of but two rooms. It now began to seem as though the house was an abandoned one, in which case the rebels would likely never stop there, unless for water. I saw no well in the yard. There was no sign of life.
I turned again and sought the woods, and again advanced parallel with the road, until, in about three hundred yards, I could see a field in my front. This field ran up to the road, and beyond the road there was another field, the road running between rail fences. I returned to Jones, whom I found somewhat alarmed in consequence of my long absence, and we brought the horses up to the spot to which I had advanced. It was now about four o'clock, and we had yet three hours of daylight. Hanover could not be much more than two miles from us.
The field in front was not wide; it sloped down to a heavily wooded hollow, in which I judged there was a stream. As I was yet quite unsatisfied in regard to the house almost in our rear, I asked Jones to creep back and observe the place thoroughly.
He returned; I could see news in his face. "They are passing now," he said.
No need to ask who "they" meant. We took our horses deeper into the woods. There Jones told me that he had seen some thirty men, in two squads, more than a hundred yards apart, ride fast toward Hanover.
"But why could I not see them in the road yonder, as they went through the field?" I asked.
"Because the road there is washed too deep. Their heads would not show above the fence," he said.
I tried to fathom the meaning of the rapid movement of these small bodies of rebels, but could get nothing out of it, except the supposition that our cavalry had pushed on up the road after we had passed Old Church. There might be, and doubtless were, several attempts made this day to ascertain the position of the rebels.
No crossing of that road now and trying the rebel left! We went to the left of the field. It was about five o'clock. We reached the foot of a hill and saw a small creek ahead of us. I now felt that I must go forward alone.
To make sure that I could find Jones again, I stationed him in the creek swamp near the corner of the field. We agreed upon a signal.
I crept forward through the swamp, converging toward the road. I crossed the stream, and reached a point from which I could see the road; it ran up a hill; on the hill I could see a group of men. Here, I was convinced, was the Confederate picket-line, if there was a line.
A thick-topped tree was growing some thirty yards from the edge of the road; from its boughs I could see mounted men facing east, nearer to me than the group above. The sun had nearly set; it shone on sabres and carbines. I was hoping there was no infantry picket-line. I came down from the tree, returned rapidly to Jones, and got ready. I told him to make himself comfortable for the night, and to wait for me no longer than two o'clock the next day. The package containing the gray clothing I took with me. I would not put it on until I should see that nothing else would do.
And now, feeling that it was for the last time, I again went forward. I had decided to try to penetrate the picket-line if I should find it to be a very long line; if it proved to be a line that I could turn, I would go round it, and when on its flank I would act as opportunity should offer. If the enemy's force were small, I might see it all from the outside; but if it consisted of brigades and divisions, I would put on the disguise and throw away my own uniform.
Twilight had deepened; on the hills in front fires were beginning to show. I reached the foot of the hill on which I had seen the rebel picket-post, and moved on slowly. I was unarmed, carrying nothing but the gray clothes wrapped in the gum-blanket.
The hill was spotted with clumps of low bushes, but there were no trees. At every step I paused and listened. I thought I could hear voices far away. Halfway up the hill I stopped; the voices were nearer--or louder, possibly.
I now ceased advancing directly up the hill; instead, I moved off at a right angle toward the left, trying to keep a line parallel with the supposed picket-line, and listening hard. A rabbit sprang up from almost under my feet. I was glad that it did not run up the hill. Voices continued to come to my ears, but from far away. I supposed that the line was more than three hundred yards from me, and that vedettes were between us; but for the vedettes, I should have gone nearer. I knew that I was in no great danger so long as the pickets would talk. The voices made me sure that these pickets did not feel themselves in the presence of an enemy. They evidently knew that they had bodies of cavalry on all the roads leading to their front. Possibly they were prepared for attack by any body of men, but they were not prepared against observation by one man; they were trusting their cavalry for that. So long, then, as I could hear the voices, I felt comparatively safe. The pickets could not see me, for I was down the hill from them--much below their sky line; if one of them should happen to be in their front for any purpose, he would think of me as I should think of him; he certainly would not suppose me an enemy; if he should be alarmed, I could get away.
So I continued moving along in the same direction, until I struck woods, where the hill ceased in a plateau; here I was on level ground, and I could see in the distance the light of camp-fires, between which and me I could not doubt were the pickets, if not indeed the main line also, of the enemy.
I kept on. The ground changed again, so that I looked down on the fires. I paused and reflected. This picket-line was long; it certainly covered more than a regiment or two. Again I wished that I were on the north side of the road.
The camp-fires now seemed more distant and a little to my right. I was beginning to flatter myself with the belief that I had reached the point where the picket-line bent back. I felt encouraged.
I retired some twenty yards, and then went on more boldly, still pursuing a course parallel, as I thought, with the picket-line fronting east. Soon I reached another road.
Should I cross this road? It ran straight, so far as I could see, into the position of the enemy; it was a wide road, no doubt one of the main roads leading to Hanover Court-House.
I looked up the road toward the enemy. I could see no camp-fires.
I thought that I had reached the enemy's flank.
A troop of cavalry rode by, going to their front.
I felt sure that I was right. I looked and found the north, star through the branches of the trees. I was right. This road ran north and south. The picket-line doubtless reached the road, or very near it, and bent back; but how far back? If the enemy depended upon cavalry for their flank,--and this flank was toward their main army at Richmond,--my work would be easy.
I crossed the road, and crept along it toward Hanover. More cavalry rode by. I kept on, doubting more strongly the existence of any infantry pickets.
An ambulance went by, going north into camp.
I went thirty yards deeper into the woods. I took everything out of my pockets, stripped off my uniform, and covered it with leaves as well as I could in the darkness. Then I put on the gray clothes and twisted the gum-blanket and threw it over my shoulder. I had resolved to accompany any ambulance or wagon that should come into the rebel camp.
Taking my station by the side of the road, I lay down and waited.
Again cavalry rode by, this squad also going to the front. I was now convinced that there was no picket-line here; this flank was protected by cavalry. Now I was glad that I had not tried the left flank of the rebel line.
I heard trains rolling, and they seemed not very far from me. I could hear the engines puffing.
From down the road toward Richmond came the crack of a whip. I saw a team coming--four or six mules, I could not yet tell in the night.
A heavy wagon came lumbering along. I was about to step out and get behind it, when I saw another; it passed, and still another came. As the last one went by I rose and followed it, keeping bent under the feed-box which, was slung behind it.
I marched thus into the rebel camp at Hanover Court-House.