I didn't report to General Banks that night—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 a bona fide refugee, 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 located at 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's presence 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 evening en route to 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 of learning 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 Beauregard at 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 be left in charge of the guard while the Colonel and the General had an interview.

While he was telling his story 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 for the 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; his only 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 the request from General Beauregard that his services be availed of, 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 by express authority of General 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.