In Washington, on the twentieth of July, 1861, expectation ran high. A decisive, and it was hoped a final blow was to be struck on the following day. Large numbers of troops had passed through the city and been massed thirty miles away. A great battle was imminent. Both armies had recently won small victories. Both were jubilant. For the most part the soldiers in these two opposing camps were raw recruits. They sang and joked and played tricks on each other. To both, war was a mere name yet, a painted glory, a sabred, gold-laced parade before admiring, cheering crowds. The Confederates knew every step of the ground. To their opponents it was an unknown land into which they had been marched; rugged, broken country, the like of which the most of them had never before seen. Raw and untried they were on both sides, but the lack of knowledge of the topography—of the location of pass and defile, of ford and of stream—gave to the Union troops (when they had deigned to think of it at all) a certain feeling of insecurity and uneasiness. Still no one doubted for a moment the outcome. The battle would be fought and won, and glory would be carried home on every Union bayonet. Civilians drove out to camp from the city, and from distant hilltops were prepared to witness the battle. A martial display like this may not be seen through field-glasses every day. Early in the day cannonading had been heard. More citizens started for the scene of action. There were intervals of comparative silence, and then again the boom of cannon and the rattle of muskets told the distant audience that hostilities were on—that neither side had finally yielded. Later a number of citizens drove furiously across the Long Bridge with the news that the Northern troops were retreating toward the city. Then word came that they had rallied, but citizens deserted their posts of observation and rode rapidly toward town. They reported the Southern troops as fighting fiercely, but it was thought they were about to yield. They could not hold out much longer against the murderous fire of the Union men. Suddenly a flying horseman with livid face and white lips sped through the streets. It was a messenger from the front! He was making straight to the White House! The Northern troops were in full retreat! People looked at each other in dismay. Surely they would rally! They would not come to the city! They were only foiling back! They would form and attack again! People told each other these things and turned pale. The streets began to be filled with returning civilians. No one stopped. Every one pushed on toward home or to the Capitol. Another foam-flecked horse dashed in. The rider had on a uniform, dirty, begrimed and wet.

"The Northern troops have broken ranks! They are fleeing, horse and foot, in one mass of disorganized panic-stricken humanity, pursued by a murderous fire from a jubilant, victory-intoxicated enemy! The officers could not rally them! It is a panic!" No need to question the facts. Look at the distant hills. Watch the approaches. See the succession of dispatch bearers fly past to the White House! "It is only a retreat! They will rally!" called back one rider only to be contradicted by the next. "It is not a retreat! It is a panic! They have broken ranks. Men are flying madly. Guns, ammunition, everything that hinders speed have been thrown away! Each man is flying to save himself! Washington is in danger!"

The climax had indeed come. The dismay knew no bounds. What next? Must the President escape? Where should he go? If he left, what could Congress do? Must all fly? Where? Would the enemy invade Washington? Was the Northern army really so disorganized, so demoralized? In the name of God! what could it all mean? People all asked questions. There was no one to answer them—no one but the stragglers who began to come in. Were the brave fellows who had so gallantly and cheerfully marched out not brave after all? Were they outnumbered? Were there no reinforcements? What was the solution? They had not long to wait. A handful of horsemen, shame-faced and hesitant, then worn out and hard-driven teams began to appear at the far end of the Long Bridge. All Washington took to its housetops. Anxious faces watched for some approaching line. None came; but the Long Bridge was gorged with a struggling mass of horse, foot and ordnance. There was no pretense of a line of march. Each man fled by and for himself. Twilight saw the streets filled with men in soiled and torn uniform; uniform which had but just marched out fresh and resplendent. Sullen replies greeted questions.

"By God, we didn't know where we were! Officers didn't know any more'n we did."

"Had us in a pocket!"

"Gad, we was lost—didn't know the way in ner out! Try it yerself."

"Willin' t' fight—but not willin' t' go it blind like that." Ambulances, limping footmen, infantry, cavalry, ordinance and supply wagons crowded and jostled and swore and cursed each at the other. Each struggled for place in advance. The Long Bridge, the Aqueduct Bridge, the Chain Bridge, all were one mad scene of confusion. The terrified men saw the dome of the Capitol and their aim was to reach it by the nearest route. The thought of the unknown country had been to them a nightmare from which escape was their only desire. All night the ghastly spectacle was kept up. No one slept. No one knew what to expect on the morrow, Would the city be bombarded from the heights beyond? Would it be shelled and burned? Would these panic-stricken men rally? Could they be depended upon, or was the fright now so in their blood that they would refuse to form in line again and obey commands? Could they be relied upon? Pennsylvania avenue was lined with tired, terrified, and wounded men. Churches were turned into hospitals. Nobody slept. Surgeons were everywhere. More wounded kept coming in. Surgeons from Baltimore, from Philadelphia, and even from New York responded to telegrams. Special trains rushed in. Washington was one mad whirl of fright and dismay! Nest morning the whole country was electrified by the terrible news.

"Extra! 'stra! 'stro! Extra! all 'bout terrible defeat m-m-m-'ion troops! 'stra! 'stra! 'stro!"

In every town and hamlet in the country—on every table there was spread the awful news on the morning of July 22. Men began to take on another look. This, indeed, was serious! What was to be done? Reserve troops were started without delay from camp and home. Excitement was at fever heat. Would the fresh troops arrive in time? Could Washington holdout? Must the President fly? Another kind of question bore hard upon many a household. Who was killed? Who wounded? Who missing? People looked into each other's eyes and feared to ask or to speak of this question nearest their hearts.

Roy Davenport's regiment was ordered to the front. Henceforth camp life would be no picnic. They could be boys no longer. Men were needed at the front. Beverly's company had some time since joined the troops in the Southwest and was in the field. The battery in which Howard acted as gunner was with Sherman in the far South. For the first time the seriousness of the situation was borne home to the whole North. To feel that Washington was really in danger gave a new meaning to defeat. Why had the Northern troops met such a fearful disaster? Before this they had won in almost every contest, but this was worth all the rest to the South so near was it to Washington—so near to Richmond. The two capitals faced each other like gladiators, and the first serious blow had fallen with crushing force upon the Union champions. If Washington fell the Confederacy was sure of foreign recognition—of success.

Griffith had a long talk with Governor Morton when he went to see Roy's regiment off. When he came home he was pale and anxious. There was a new trouble on his heart. He did not tell Katherine that Morton had urged him to volunteer his services to the Government as a guide through the passes and defiles of his native State.

"Your knowledge of that country would be simply invaluable. It would prevent any such disaster as this again. Panics like this ruin an army. It will take months to recover from such a rout even if nothing worse comes of it. The moral effect is simply fatal. You are a Union man and you know every foot of that country. Our generals don't. They are afraid to risk getting their men into a pocket and losing their whole command. You can help. The main battle-ground is bound to be Virginia; we can accomplish nothing of value until we know and feel secure on that soil—until the State is an open book to us. Let me wire the President that you will. Let—"

Griffith held up his hand.

"I cannot! I cannot!" he said. "It is my old State; I love it and my people. I have done enough for my country. I have done my share. I have given my property, my friends, my home, and now my three boys—all, all I have given for my conscience and my country's sake. Surely I have done my whole duty, I will not betray my State! I will not!"

Over and over the Governor had returned to the attack only to receive the same reply. Day after day he argued with Griffith, and still ill news came from the front. The army of the Potomac seemed paralyzed after its repulse. The real gravity of the situation was, for the first time, borne in upon both the military and the political mind. If the great foreign powers recognized the Confederate government, the Republic was lost. If Washington fell, that recognition was assured—and still "all was quiet on the Potomac."

The middle of July the wires had flashed the news of the defeat of the Confederates at Boonville, Missouri, by Lyons' men. Beverly had been there, and had written the full account home. Then he was at Carthage, and was full of fight and enthusiasm. After his account of the battle at Carthage, he had other things to tell. "I didn't get a scratch either place, but the day after the last fight I did get a lot of fun out of it. I suppose you won't be able to see how there could be any fun in the situation. Well, I'll tell you one or two things. One of my men showed the white feather, and we were thinking of court-martialing and making an example of him. I made up my mind to give Hartman (that was the fellow's name, Bill Hartman) a chance to tell me privately his side of the story. Says I, 'Bill, I've asked all your neighbors here in camp if you were a coward at home, and they all say you were not only brave, but you had proved it many a time. Now, I want to save you this court-martial if I can, and I want you to tell me your side of it. How did it happen?'

"'Well,' said he, transferring his quid of tobacco to his other cheek, 'Cap, it's this arway. I can't seem t' jest stand right up an' shoot a feller I ain't had no words with. I want to pick out my man when I kill him, an' I want t' kinder have a quah'l with him fust. I can't seem t' jest stand right up an' kill a man I ain't had no words with, I can't do it, somehow er 'nother, Cap.'

"I don't know how I'm going to manage to get Bill into a 'quah'l' with some special Reb before the next fight, and then make sure he'll get a chance to pop at that particular one in action! We'll have to get up some scheme, I suppose. Bill is too good a soldier to be ham-pered and to have his usefulness impaired by a simple want of a feeling of personal revenge! I reckon if the truth were told, though, we all fight a good deal better if we have that stimulant. Another ludicrous thing happened the other day. I was sent out, just with an orderly, to see if I could learn anything of the movements of the enemy. We had on citizens' clothes, and we jogged along until we were within field-glass distance of Harris's camp. He is an old West Pointer and a tactician. I've heard that they call him 'Old Logistics and Strategy'—and I must say if his advice in the Senate had been followed last winter we'd have had a mighty poor show here now. But when we got where we thought we could see something, quite a shower came up and our glass was no use. Under the cover of the rain I ventured a good deal closer; and, if you'll believe me, his command were sitting on their horses, drawn up in line, with umbrellas raised! The absurdity of the thing nearly knocked my pins from under me. I only wished I could get near enough to see the effect on Old Logistics when he should emerge from his tent—and he a West Pointer! But you don't need to make any mistakes about their fighting—these natives. We've found that they will fight to the death, but they've got their own ideas on the subject of soldiering in the meantime. Most of 'em carry their powder in a pouch, and it needs to be kept dry! It was the very funniest thing I ever saw, though. The rain came down in such torrents I couldn't get an idea how many there were, but, from the way they fought us next day, I made up my mind there must be pretty close to a million—and they didn't use umbrellas to protect themselves, either! They took our storm of shot cooler than they did the rain in camp, and they fought like demons. Of course, their equipments don't compare with ours. Most of them have their old home guns—no two alike. But a good lot of our boys are carrying around some of their ammunition inside of them just now, all the same. One of the prisoners we took—a straggler—told us that none of his command are regularly enlisted. They are afraid to enlist; say that Old Logistics is a 'reg'lar,' and, if they enlist and then don't do just his way, he'll court-martial them. They argue that, if they don't regularly enlist, he can't do anything to them. They are ready and eager to fight, but they don't propose to be subject to 'regular' discipline in the intervals. This fellow says half of the command go home nights—to their farms and stores—and return at dawn the next morning. I think he is lying about the numbers who do, but I don't doubt that some do. He vows he is telling the cold fact. Fancy the humor of commanding an army under umbrellas, who go home nights to milk the cows! But undertake to fight 'em, and there is no laugh left. That is not their comic side. We have orders to move in the morning and are all ready. I will let you hear again the moment we stop."

Before this letter of Beverly's reached home the telegraphic news of the battle of Wilson's Creek filled the papers. Beverly's name appeared among the wounded: "Seriously, not fatally—Captain Beverly Davenport; shot in three places while covering retreat after General Lyon fell. Young Captain Davenport's men did good service. His command lost heavily." No further news came. Griffith telegraphed, but could get no reply.

"You must go and bring him home," said Katherine. "I cannot bear this suspense any longer."

She had grown pale and hollow-eyed in these few days of anxiety. Griffith went. He found Beverly doing well, but a ball had gone through his sword-arm and two others were imbedded in his flesh. His horse had fallen beneath him and he had had to walk on the wounded leg, and had lost much blood. He looked weak and thin. His orderly had written home for him, but the letter had never come. Griffith urged him to go home and recuperate, but he would not listen to the proposition. Griffith wrote home to Katherine and then waited. The command was ordered to move, and still Beverly was not able to go with it. The commander ordered him to go home until able to report for duty.

He was a sensation in the village. He was the first handsome young wounded officer to return. Alas! they were plenty enough later on; but now his limp and his arm suspended in a sling made him a hero, indeed. Many were the demonstrations in his honor. The Governor came to see him, and strove again to convince Griffith that he, too, was needed at the front. "I have told President Lincoln about you," he said. "You can see for yourself what the army in Virginia is doing ever since Bull Run—nothing at all. Those two defeats—Bull Run and Ball's Bluff—stopped them off entirely. Action that will be effective is simply impossible without knowing the lay of the land. Northern men don't know it, and we can't trust Southern men to tell the truth, of course, about it. The rebels know that perfectly well, and they bank on it. They keep their best and strongest generals, and men who know the State like a book, right there between Washington and Richmond. It won't do to let it be generally known, for that would put panic into our troops when they are tried next; but there is not a soul the President can trust who knows those passes and defiles and fords. Captain, I hope you know them. I don't believe you will refuse to go any place you are needed. As a recruit—an enlisted man—you can't refuse."

"Go," said Beverly; "go! why of course I would if I knew the country as father does, but I don't. You see father used to be a circuit-rider. He knows every foot of it as if it were his front yard, but I would know only a few miles near where we lived. I was only a boy then. It is a hard country to learn. Passes are many and blind. Fords change—it takes a native and an expert to feel safe with them. If I—" He turned suddenly to his father in his enthusiasm. "Why don't you go, father? If the President wants you—if your country needs you, why—" He saw the look that crept into his father's face, and he understood. The young fellow limped to his father's side and laid his left hand on his shoulder.

"Father has done enough," he said, looking at the Governor. "Do not ask him to do this. He fought his battle before the North came to it. He has borne and suffered enough, Governor. Father is a Virginian, blood, bone, and ancestry. He loves his people and his old home. We boys don't remember it as he does, but to him—to him, it will always be home. They will always be his people."

"Unless it is desperate and I am ordered, I shall not go," said Griffith, looking up almost defiantly. "You need not ask me again, Governor. I have done my share. I have done more for my country and my conscience than many men will be called upon to do—I have done my share."

The Governor gave it up, but he did not forget one phrase, "unless it is desperate—unless I am ordered." That night he started for Washington, and a week later Beverly returned to his command and to duty in the field.