CHAPTER XI. IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS INTERCEPTED AT MANASSAS, WHICH ESTABLISHED THE FACT THAT THE REBEL ARMY HAD NO INTENTION, AND WERE NOT ABLE TO ADVANCE AFTER MANASSAS--THE REBEL ARMY DEMORALIZED BY SUCCESS, AND TWENTY-FIVE PER CENT. ABSENT FROM EPIDEMIC--ON THE FIELD AFTER THE BATTLE--OBSERVATION INSIDE REBEL CAMPS--TALKING WITH RICHMOND BY WIRE--CAPTURED BY REBEL PICKET IN SIGHT OF THE SIGNAL LIGHTS AT GEORGETOWN COLLEGE.

I was always particularly careful to conceal from every one with whom I was in contact when scouting that I was an expert telegrapher. As such I was able, without any apparent effort at listening on my part, or in any way indicating by my manner that I was paying any attention to the monotonous clicking of the instruments, to interpret every word or signal that they gave out.

I had studied this part carefully, realizing fully that upon my successful concealment of this accomplishment everything depended.

I now found myself—through a train of events that seemed almost providential—in exactly the position inside the Rebel armies from which I could best accomplish the objects that I had set out to undertake when I first presented the Secretary's letter to General Patterson and General Porter.

I might have been there before the battle, if Fitz-John Porter had not delayed me. A few days after, I was at the old shanty of a railroad depot from which the trains and telegraph communication were had with Richmond, Gordonsville, and the Valley; the armies of Generals Beauregard and Johnston were encamped some distance in advance of this point, but my situation was exactly suited to my purpose, which was to intercept communication over the wire to and from Richmond between the Rebel Government and their Generals in the field. I might learn more by sitting still or loafing around listlessly in one day at that point than could be accomplished by a week's tramp through every camp of the Rebel Army.

When I reached the railway station, in charge of one of General Beauregard's orderlies, it was quite dark. The gentlemanly Rebel soldier, at the direction of the staff officer, escorted me thither from headquarters, politely presented me to the agent or officer in charge, as a "Maryland refugee, whom General Beauregard had sent to him to make use of until such time as he could join with some other Marylanders, who were to come in soon." I was also further recommended as having been connected with railroads in the North, and, continuing, he said:

"Mr. Wilmore" (I had assumed my mother's maiden name) "is willing to undertake any work you may have for him."

"Yes," I spoke up; "I shall be obliged for any employment that will enable me to even earn my rations until I can meet with some friends, whom I expect."

I was cordially received and hospitably entertained as one of the exiled refugees from "Maryland, my Maryland;" in fact, I became somewhat embarrassed by the generous attentions that the attachÉs about the place were disposed to give me, on account of my being a youthful exile from home.

The station-house was an old frame structure, such as one sees on second-class railways in a new country. One portion was assigned to the offices, in which were crowded together the ticket-sellers, the agent, clerks, and the three telegraph operators. There had not, of course, entered into the plans of the builder of the road and station-houses any calculations for the increased facilities demanded by the presence of a large army at that point, and, necessarily, everything was exceedingly cramped and crowded, which uncomfortable fact served all the better for my purposes.

There was a squad of Rebel soldiers detailed at the depot for the protection of property and to guard the employÉs. The measly old shanty was more correctly termed a "depot" than are some of those elegant railroad structures which have recently been erected over the country, which, properly speaking, are "stations," even if located at a city terminus—a depot being correctly defined as a storehouse, or base of supplies for an army.

This depot, like all the country stations, had a broad platform around two sides of it. At the rear of the office portion was a window looking out on this platform. Inside of the office, against the wall, immediately under this window, was an old deal table or shelf, on which was placed two complete sets of Morse instruments, while scattered about over this desk in a telegraphic style was a lot of paper neatly done up in clips, an old inkstand, half a dozen pens, short pieces of lead pencils, while behind the instruments a meerschaum pipe nestled in a cigar box half filled with tobacco. There were a couple of glass insulators for paper weights, and an immense six-inch glass jar, or battery cup, which the operators used for a drinking cup.

The fact that this cup had recently composed part of his battery and contained a strong solution of nitric acid, did not, that I ever noticed, deter the thirsty telegrapher from taking a long swig out of it after "Jimmy," the little messenger, should bring it in full of water fresh from the spring.

The wires, covered with woven thread, were leading down the sides of the window, under the table, where they were taken up in an inexplicable net, and drawn through gimlet holes in the desk, and curled into their proper place in the instruments.

One of these instruments communicated with all the railroad stations on toward Gordonsville and the valley; the other was the direct line of communication with Richmond, and as this machine did most of the business, its voice, or tone, was permitted to sound the loudest, and partially drowned the other; but if an operator's educated ear detected the signal for attention from the railroad instrument, he could, by a mere twitch of the finger, accord it the prominent place, until its wants were attended to.

All the telegraph operators engaged there were clever gentlemen, who were, of course, as full of the Southern enthusiasm as were their soldiers, and to the end gave to their cause that zeal and devotion, protecting, as far as lay in their power, the important secrets and confidences which necessarily passed through their hands, without a single instance of betrayal of the trust.

Like the telegraph corps of the Union army, they served without rank, and for small pay, and no hope of achieving for themselves any of the glory of war. To-day the army telegraphers are not even accorded the privilege granted enlisted men and teamsters. Their names are, unfortunately, not enrolled among those of the "Grand Army."

Of course, I cultivated the friendship of the boys; I flattered myself that I knew some of their vulnerable points and was able to approach them in the proper way.

What operator has not been "made sick" by the stereotyped observation of visitors, who so often observe, with a superior air, perhaps, while he is showing his girl the telegraph office for the first time, while questioning the courteous and long-suffering operator as to the never ending "curiosities of the telegraph?"

"I once began to learn to telegraph, and knew the alphabet, and could write ever so many words, but I gave it up."

Too bad they all give it up. I've heard the remark in my time on an average of about once a week for twenty-five years, from educated men, too, and have been just that often made sick at the stomach. Any school boy can learn the alphabet from his book on philosophy; so he can learn the alphabet of the Greek, but it requires close application for months to make a mere "operator," and it usually takes years to make a telegrapher, while those who have studied the art and science of electricity longest say they know the least of its wonderful possibilities.

The very first act on my part was to question in this way the operator who was on duty the next morning. I had proposed to the station-master to sweep out for him, and endeavored, in a general way, to make myself a man of all work about the place, so that I might be allowed to remain there instead of being put on the road as a brakeman.

With a broom in my hand, I observed to the operator, who was at that moment leaning over and peering under his desk cleaning his local battery, or rather bossing an old negro who was down on his knees trying to do this work for him: "I came near being an operator once."

I had not time to say that I had learned the alphabet when the young man straightened himself up and pleasantly observed: "The hell you did."

I turned my back and began sweeping vigorously, and, if the young man had seen my face, it would have shown a suppressed laugh instead of anger.

That remark fixed him. I know that he for one would never suspect me of being an operator. As the old colored uncle was not doing his work properly at the local, I volunteered to help; and, taking hold of the wires, I handled them in a clumsy way that was amusing to myself, and, under his direction, for my willingness to aid, I was told that I should have the nasty job of cleaning battery every day after that.

The first day passed without anything of especial interest occurring until about sundown, when a message which I had not heard was received for "headquarters."

It was the duty of one of the mounted orderlies to deliver all messages, but at that time there did not happen to be any orderly about, and, noting their hunt for one, I volunteered to perform the duty and on foot. My services were accepted without question, and I became the bearer of a dispatch to the Rebel headquarters.

The operator placed in my hands an enveloped message for an officer whose name I have forgotten, but it was addressed to the "Headquarters of the Army," remarking, as he carelessly handed it to me: "It's an important message from Richmond and must be answered right away, or I should let it lie over until one of those orderlies got back, because it's an awful long walk from here."

Anxious to get the important paper in my hands, I did not think or care for that at all, and told him with an earnestness that I could hardly suppress that I'd rather walk a little than lay around there idle so much, especially as I hoped by getting out to be able to meet some of my Maryland friends in the camps. They all looked upon my proposal as being prompted by my zeal or my "willingness" to be of any service possible to the cause generally and the telegraph people personally.

The Rebel armies had been advanced somewhat during the few days. We all know how difficult it is to find a certain regiment or brigade which we had left perhaps in a snug camp in a well-known location only the day previous, rigged up and beautifully laid out and decorated as if they intended to make it a winter quarters, but had been suddenly ordered during the night, perhaps, to some distant point on a picket detail or wagon guard. These sudden changes in the camps and of the headquarters to a straggling cavalryman or infantryman seem to alter the entire topography of the country in one day, and is very confusing to anyone.

I concluded, however, to take the general course which had been indicated, and to depend on further inquiries as I went along.

With this important dispatch in my pocket, my curiosity burning with an intense desire to learn its contents, I started off briskly, determining in my usual reckless manner that, if it should turn out to be important, that I'd deliver it to our headquarters, instead of to the Rebel's, that night. It did not in those days occur to me very often that there might be obstacles in my path. I presume that I felt if there were that, as a matter of course, I should be able to overcome or crush any attempted interference with my plans.

I had not gone far when I was startled out of my reverie by a "helloa," from the rear. Looking around in a frightened way, as if I had been detected in the very act of opening the envelope, as the subject was in my mind, I saw trotting up after me a neatly-dressed soldier on horseback, whom I recognized on a closer approach as one of the orderlies detailed for duty at the railroad station.

His laughing question assured me that I was not to be arrested, and, recovering myself, I was able to receive him calmly and pleasantly, as he said:

"I got back shortly after you had left, and they sent me out to relieve you. I'll take that dispatch out; why, it's five miles almost; we're much obliged to you, though."

I rather reluctantly handed over the envelope, which, perhaps luckily for me, had not been tampered with; the natty orderly slipped it under his belt and, after a few more pleasant words, rode off.

In a disappointed mood I retraced my steps to the telegraph station, walking along at a much more leisurely gait than when starting out. I had the leisure to think over my future operation, and before I had returned to the office, had about resolved in my own mind that there was not any use in longer staying about there. But, remembering my experience at Fort Pickens and in Patterson's army in getting into our own lines from that of the enemy, my mission in both cases being misunderstood and my object mistrusted by our own officers, because I had only my own word to support my reports, I fully determined that, without regard to the risk of carrying papers, I should not again return to our lines without taking with me some documentary or other proof to sustain my observations. I had thought, while in possession of the official dispatch, what a pleasant gratification it would be to my old friend Covode to be able to show him an intercepted dispatch from Richmond to the commander of the Rebel armies in the field; and as the thought of this performance dwelt in my brain as I walked along, I formed a hasty plan, which I believed I could mature and carry into effect—of securing from the files or papers in the telegraph office a number of copies of the most important dispatches, either in the handwriting of Generals Joseph E. Johnston or Beauregard, addressed to Richmond, or at least signed by them officially.

At the particular time during which I was at this point, it seemed to me that the burden of the wires was the messages of inquiry for the sick and wounded, mixed up with florid dispatches of congratulation, coupled almost always with expressions of the great possibilities of the South.

There were but few official messages of any importance that I was able to hear; those carried to and fro by the orderlies, and to which I gave my personal attention in a quiet way, would turn out to be generally some Quartermaster's or Commissaries' orders or requisitions, and I became nervous and tired over the strain or tension I had been obliged to maintain in order to overhear the instruments in the midst of the confusion always existing about the place.

As the telegraph table was jammed up tightly against the board wall of the house, under the window, it became my favorite place for loafing when outside of the office. I could sit on the board platform and, with my back against the boards under the window distinctly hear every word that went over the wires, the thin partition between my head and the inside answered as a sounding-board, really helping to convey the signals by vibration.

If the reader is anxious to try an experiment, let him place an ear against even a thick wall and allow some person with a penknife handle to tap or knock ever so softly, but quickly and sharply, in imitation of a telegraph instrument's click, and you will be astonished at the distinctness with which the wall will carry the sound like a telegraph wire.

There was always about the place a lot of idle loafers—Rebel soldiers off duty, who naturally gravitated toward the railroad stations, where the little stores or sutlers were usually to be found, dealing out commissary whisky and tobacco.

Every day, and for every train, there would be crowds of sickly-looking soldiers at the station in care of friends, who were taking them to the trains for their homes. Dear me! I recall it as if it were but yesterday, how the hundreds of poor fellows looked as they were helped aboard the crowded cars by their poor old fathers, or perhaps younger brothers. I always associate in my mind a sick Rebel, with his big eyes and sallow face, with a resemblance to a crazy tramp one sees sometimes nowadays, injured while stealing a ride on a freight train, gazing at everything in a stupid sort of way, clothed in a pair of butternut pants and coat, and big gray blanket over his shoulders even in that August sun. I saw lots of them go away from Manassas that I felt sure would never return to trouble us. They were not all sick, not by any means; some of the chaps that gathered about our place were about as lively and fractious as one meets at an Irish picnic.

One evening while sitting in my favorite place under the window, apparently dozing, but wide enough wake to take in every sound of the instrument which I knew emanated from the fingers of the operator at Richmond, my quick ear caught a message addressed to a prominent official. As it was being spelled out rapidly, promising something rich in the way of news development, I was eagerly straining every nerve and sense to catch every word of it. The instrument had ticked out the name and address, which had first attracted my attention, and I had read—"We have information from Washington that Banks—" when some big fellow among the crowd on the platform, of course not knowing of my intense earnestness at that moment, began a jig-dance on the board platform; and as his boots were at least number nine, and he weighed 200 pounds, of course the vibrations from that source smothered the other sounds. So intent and eagerly had I fixed myself on catching that message, and was so absorbed in my purpose, that, when the fellow made his first jump, I impulsively cried out: "Keep still a minute."

This was a dead "give away," or would have been to any person who had known anything of the telegraph business and my recent connection with the place; but, quickly recovering myself, I said, "All right; I thought the operator was calling me."

He went on with his dancing but I lost the message.

I afterward carelessly walked inside and tried, without exciting any suspicion, to ascertain what the information about Banks amounted to. I was not successful at the time, but kept the matter in my mind constantly during the evening, and the more I thought about it the more eager I became to know its purport.

I was satisfied fully, from personal observation, that there was no thought of an advance on Washington. I could see from the number of leaves of absence, and the great crowds of soldiers leaving by every train, that no forward movement was then contemplated. Besides this, I had heard on the wire message after message of an official character from quartermasters, commissaries and others interested in the movement of an army, of sufficient character to satisfy me of any projected advance. I decided to go to Washington and report thus much.

It had been arranged that, as Beauregard (or Johnston) had advanced his line to near Fairfax Court House, the telegraph office would be moved the next day, so as to be more convenient.

Late in the night, when the only one on duty in the office was the operator with a guard or sentry outside, I lay on the floor of the office affecting sound sleep, but wide-awake. Knowing that it was the last opportunity to get hold of any papers, I became anxious and almost desperate. A long message had been sent to "S. Cooper, Adjutant-General, Richmond," giving a full and detailed account of an epidemic that had apparently broken out in the army. The dispatch was important I knew, from the fact of its being addressed to S. Cooper, who I knew was Adjutant-General for Jeff Davis, and was, I think, signed by Dr. Cartright. It was quite long; the only part of it which I distinctly remember was the astonishing statement that twenty-five per cent., or one-fourth, of the Rebel Army were sick or unable to do any active duty on account of this epidemic of dysentery or diarrh[oe]a. This was an important admission in an official form, and I decided that it was the message in writing that I must carry with me to Washington. I observed carefully where the operator placed the original copy after it had been sent.

It was his duty to have remained there all night, prepared to receive or send communications that might chance to come, but we all know how soundly the night-owls can sleep while on duty, and I knew, or hoped, that this young fellow would soon take his chance and drop asleep, when I could abstract that Cooper message from his files.

I did not have to wait for him to sleep; he did better than that for me; he went out of the office and left me inside alone, and I, moving vigorously, with one eye watched his every movement; he further favored me by turning all his lights down before leaving. I inferred that his purpose (as all was quiet on the wire) was to go to his bunk and take a regular sleep like a Christian and a white man, and not like a common soldier. I heard his footsteps on the long platform grow fainter and further off, and then the sound disappeared as he jumped onto solid ground. Now was my chance to get that message.

Realizing that it might be my only opportunity, I quickly determined to take the risk of his returning soon and, perchance, missing the message from his file—it being conspicuous because of its bulky appearance. I silently stole up to the desk and slipped the big piece of paper from his hook and put it—not in my pocket, not by a good deal—but I carelessly laid it "aside," where I would be able to reach it, and where the operator could find it if he should return and take a notion to hunt it up.

Pleased with my success, and emboldened by the continued absence of the operator, I thought of looking further for a copy of the message about "Banks" that I had heard come over the wires that afternoon, but abandoned it, remembering that, as it was a received message from Richmond, that probably there was no copy of it retained in the office and the original had been delivered.

Everything seemed to become oppressively as still and quiet as death outside—the office was dark; the instrument only ticked an occasional "call" from "Rd;" but as the operator was not there to answer the "call" the "Rd" operator no doubt thought him asleep, and with that feeling of fraternity and consideration for which the craft are noted, the man at "Rd" undoubtedly turned in himself. It's probable the feeble call was merely a desire to assure himself that the man at the other end was drowsy and ready to go to sleep. I understood all their little tricks. I had been there myself often, and, as I lay on that floor, I fully sympathized with the boys.

Feeling that it was to be almost my last hour in the telegraph service of the Rebels at Manassas, I became bold and reckless enough at my success, and the hope of getting away soon, to undertake a very foolish piece of business.

In the darkness, which comes just before daylight (when I should leave), I learned the Cooper message. At the same moment, almost involuntarily, I placed my hand on the "key" of the telegraph instrument and softly called, "Rd-Rd-Rd," several times; there was no answer to my first feeble call. The operator was probably asleep. I was turning away, abandoning the attempt, when I was thrilled through and through by the click of the instrument answering in a slow, sleepy way, "I-I-I," which is the affirmative signal in answer to a call for attention to receive a message. Glaring about wildly in the darkness in search of the voice of the Rebel spectre I had aroused, and who was speaking to me from Richmond, I took hold of the key and said, in nervous haste and desperation:

"What was that message you sent about Banks?"

There was a moment's silence. "Rd" did not seem to comprehend, and made the telegraphic signal for interrogation (?) or repeat. I said more deliberately:

"That message about Banks—is there anything important?"

"Oh, yes; why, you sent the answer to that."

"I forgot it."

"Yes," he answered; that "a Confederate Company could take care of Banks."

"O.K., O.K."

I had just laid down when footsteps were heard advancing toward the office door, and, in another moment, to my great relief, not the operator, but the colored servant or porter, tumbled in for an hour's sleep before it was time to sweep and clean up the office preparatory to the coming day's work. There was no more sleep for me. I was wide-awake to the importance of getting away from there as soon as possible. With the intent of throwing everybody off their guard, or to avoid any suspicion that might possibly attach to my sudden departure, I had made up, and had been careful to tell all the listeners I could get the day previous, that I was going out to Fairfax C. H. to find some friends whom I had understood were in camp there, and I might be away all day and night. Also, that I was tired of civil life about the railroad and anxious to enter the army, and would do so if I found my friends.

I knew that the operator who had been on duty, or supposed to have been on duty that night, would be relieved by the regular day man in the morning, so, of course, the man coming on duty would not be likely to know anything about the night messages, or to miss any messages that he himself had not sent. I therefore took the last opportunity to collect from the files of the office several interesting "documents," which I knew would be valuable souvenirs to show my friends when I should get back to Washington.

Early in the morning I secured a note from the Superintendent requesting a pass through the army for myself, to enable me to look up a friend. With a few further words of good-by to one or two companions, with whom I had been so singularly associated for a few days, I left the place, with the expectation of being able to reach Washington the same night.

The distance was but twenty miles, I think, to Alexandria. My plan was, during the daytime to travel openly under protection of my pass, in a course leading to the front. From the best outlook that I could reach, I hoped to place myself convenient to some unguarded point, through which I could escape from the Rebels, and in safety reach our own lines under cover of the darkness. It was not a particularly dangerous undertaking at that time, because the Rebels—officers and soldiers—whatever may be said to the contrary, were demoralized, and had become quite careless and almost indifferent to their surroundings.

I was now going into the very heart of the Rebel army. I think that I saw all that was to be seen in a day's scout. They had, what I thought at the time, an awful lot of cannon; and cavalrymen in bright gray uniforms were flying about everywhere, mounted on their own fine horses, and stirring up a dust in such a way as to impress me with the idea that the woods were full of horsemen. The infantry camps were, for the most part, pleasantly located; in fact, everything looked brighter from the midst of the army than it had from its rear; but there was everywhere present—along the roads, or in the yards of convenient houses—the same groups of sick-looking soldiers and officers, who were probably awaiting their turn to get home to die.

There were numerous fortifications, earthworks and masked batteries to be seen, and when I got on to the battlefield of Bull Run what a disgusting smell filled the air; the very atmosphere seemed to be thick and heavy with the odor of half-buried and half-burned horses and mules, the bones of which were to be seen in many places covered with carrion crows, which would fly off making their ugly noises as they hovered about in a way to make the heart sick. You all know how we used to "bury" the dead artillery and cavalry horses, by simply piling a few fence-rails over the bodies and then setting fire to the pile, and then ride off and leave the coals of the fire baking the carcass. Whew! the smell of those half-burned old horses sticks in my nostrils even after twenty-five years.

I have not much to say of the many poor fellows whose toes were to be seen above ground; and now and then a piece of blue cloth showed through the thin covering of earth, and one hand laid above the grave, from which the fingers had been actually rotted or eaten off. It's an ugly subject to write or think about now, and I dismiss it from my mind with the same feeling of disgust and sickness that I experienced that day I walked along the fields and fences in August, 1861. Under the pretence of looking for a sick comrade, whom I pretended might have died at one of the hospitals or private houses in that direction, I moved about unmolested. There were plenty of civilian visitors beside myself, who were readily granted the privilege of going over the battlefield; their army friends were glad of an opportunity to escort them, so it was not thought at all out of the way for me to be prowling about there alone in search of a sick or perhaps a dead friend. In this way I got beyond the battlefield without any trouble, and along the railroad toward the station from which a road leads up to Fairfax Court House. Here I began to encounter some difficulties in the way of guards and sentries which were placed about the railroad bridges and at the cross-roads. Their purpose was, as a general thing, I imagined, to prevent their own soldiers from roaming or straggling about too much.

I knew that the railroad track would lead me in the most direct route to Alexandria, and soon to our army on that line; but I understood, also, that it would be more carefully patrolled and guarded than were the country roads; and for this reason I preferred the woods in which to make my final dash for liberty, and the Union, and home.

The critical moments in a scout's experience come just at this point—after successfully passing beyond one line and before reaching the other; then occurs the time when capture means his sure detection, either as a deserter or a spy, with its terrible punishment; and it is extremely difficult to tell from appearances whether those you meet or see are the friends you hope to find or the enemies you desire to leave behind.

I had traveled openly and boldly all day through the Rebel Army, carrying inside the lining of my cap the official papers I wished to get through. I had placed them in my hat because I calculated that, in case of a pursuit and probable capture, I might be able accidentally to "lose" the hat in a way that would not attract any particular attention, and a search of the regulation place for a spy to carry papers—in the shoes—would reveal nothing to implicate me. Night and darkness was rapidly coming on, yet I continued boldly to advance right along to the front, and, in the gloaming, I reached a little house setting back from the road, where I applied for supper and lodging. There were several soldiers about the yard, and officers were inside the house, as I judged from seeing their horses tied in the barnyard. An old bushwhacking proprietor, to whom I addressed myself, said that he couldn't keep me, as these officers had engaged the only accommodations he had. Turning to the officers I explained in a plausible manner that I had been hunting all day for a sick comrade, who had been left at a private house; that I was unable to find him—his name and regiment I was then able to furnish, knowing very well from their distance back, where I had located them, these men would not detect me—and as I was too tired and sick to go back that night, I must rest till morning, and so I would take a bed in the barn. I showed my request for a pass, across the face of which I had carefully endorsed in bold handwriting, in red ink, before leaving the office, the official words, "Approved, R. Chisholm, A. D. C."

That was a clear case of forgery, but "All's fair in love or war," and "desperate cases require desperate remedies."

The officers were of that kind who are easily impressed by an endorsement, especially if it is written across the face of the papers in red ink; and without any further question I was invited to sit down while a warm supper was being prepared for them.

I gathered from their conversation that the Rebel outposts were still some distance beyond. Though their own regiment was on this picket duty, their presence in the house was explained by the sickness of the younger of the two officers, the older having brought him in off the picket-line. There were also in addition to this line of pickets, a cavalry detachment that were supposed to be constantly moving up and down the roads in front of or between the two armies. So I was still a long way from our lines, and had yet some serious obstacles to overcome.

It wasn't exactly a pleasant evening for me, although I was so near home again. I lay there in that hay-loft or horse-shed, planning for the last dash for liberty; I knew that I must not attempt to move out of the barn until everybody was sound asleep; I had also some fear of a couple of dogs, that I'd seen running about the house rousing the folks when I should stir; I realized that I had a serious night's tramp ahead of me; my path must necessarily lead me over the fields and through the woods in tiresome detours that would be necessary in avoiding the road. For this reason I was anxious to make an early start from the barn; and just as soon as everything became quiet I silently groped my way out of the loft and slid myself down on the manure pile; crouched a moment to nervously listen and learn if the way was clear, and not hearing a sound of life, I started off cautiously on the last quarter-stretch of my night run for "liberty or death."

Keeping to the fields and woods, but in sight of the fence along the road as a guide, for some distance without meeting anyone or the hearing of a sound except the crickets and frogs, I became more emboldened and climbed over the fence into the road, striking out at a lively gait down a long hill. At the bottom of this hill, or rather in the valley between two hills, flowed a little stream which was spanned by one of those old-fashioned stone bridges. When I came close I discovered that a sentry was standing on it. I thought it was a picket; I could discern a moving object that looked to me through the darkness sufficiently like a soldier and his gun, to cause me to get back over the fence and make rapid tracks through the field to his flank. Almost exhausted, I found myself on the bank of the same little stream at a point where there was neither bridge or pickets.

I had learned enough about the military way of doing things to understand that, topographically, this little stream of water probably represented the Rebel picket-line, and I surmised that if I were able successfully to pass this point, that I should meet with no further danger from the infantry, and that cavalry could easily be avoided by keeping away from the roads, as I could travel over the routes where the horses could not be used.

I waded right in fearlessly; there was but little water running, but, oh dear! there was lots of mud concealed under the little bit of water, and when I pulled out, on the other side, I had gained several pounds in weight which had to be carried along up the next hill by a pair of legs already nearly exhausted. I got over that hill and passed down into another valley, and had, as before, become so emboldened by not meeting with anything in my path to relieve myself of the extra labor of climbing fences and crawling over logs, as well as scratching through briar bushes and tramping ploughed fields, I again took to the road.

All that day and most of the night I had now been going steadily in one direction, as I believed toward our lines, which I had figured could not be more than twenty miles distant from my starting point in the morning. Feeling that I could not be far from rest and glorious relief from the dreadful strain or suspense in which I had placed myself since leaving the barn, I recklessly pushed along the open road. Up to that point I could have retreated and saved myself, but now that I had gotten outside of the lines, no explanation would answer, if I were captured.

I was so fully satisfied that I was outside the Rebel lines and became so exhilarated with the feeling that came over me upon the thought that the next soldier I should meet would be our own boys in blue, that I started up the hill at a brisk dog-trot, feeling almost as fresh as when starting out in the morning.

This road was through a strip of dense pine woods. You all know how dismally dark the path seems which leads through a deep and dark, lonely wood on a cloudy night. I felt, as I forged along, like the ostrich with her head in the sand, that, as "I could see nobody, nobody could see me," and was feeling comfortable enough, notwithstanding the dreary loneliness of the time and place, to have whistled Yankee Doodle, even although I was not out of the woods.

I wasn't afraid of the Black-Horse Cavalry in that darkness and gloom, because I knew very well that afoot I could easily hear the approach of horses along the road in time to get out of the way by running to the adjacent dark woods. In my mind I planned my forthcoming interview with the surprised officers of our army, whom I would soon meet face to face.

It's a rule or law that scouts or spies must report direct to the General commanding, and not talk to anyone else. I was going to do better than this, and report to the President and Secretary of War, and show the evidence that I carried—that there were twenty-five per cent. of the Rebel Army sick with this epidemic, while probably another twenty-five per cent. were absent on sick leave or straggling, and no advance was possible, while an attack by Banks on their rear would demoralize them all badly.

"Halt!"

That's the word I heard come from the darkness and interrupted my plans, which shot through me as if it were uttered by a ghost or spirit from another world, and put me in a tremor of dismay. The voice came from the side of the road, and from behind. I was so taken by surprise that I could not at the instant see the object that spoke like a deathknell this dreadful word.

In another instant a soldier in a blue uniform appeared, pointing his gun at me, as he said "Stand there!" Then calling to a comrade, who had evidently been asleep, as he did not immediately answer, I recovered my voice sufficiently to say to the soldier in the blue blouse:

"You scared me half to death, until I saw your uniform."

He replied to my observation:

"Yes; where did you come from?"

I had not yet seen his face distinctly, but his voice and dialect at once aroused my doubts, and again put me on my guard, and I said:

"I'll tell you all about it when your officer comes," and I braced for a run.

In another moment the rattling of a saber was heard, coming from the direction of the woods, and, peering through the darkness into the grove, I was able to distinguish the outlines of a house.

When the officer with his rattling scabbard got up to us I was almost paralyzed to see him dressed in the grey uniform of a Confederate cavalry officer. Addressing me courteously, he said:

"What in the name of all that's good brings you out on this road on such a dark night, disturbing our sleep?"

He laughed, as if he thought it a good joke on himself; it was only a trifling little laugh, but it gave me some encouragement.

"Why, I have been hunting the house where a sick friend of mine was left after the battle, and, being unable to find him, I went to sleep in a barn, but I couldn't stand that sort of a rest, so I got out and started back home, and I guess I'm lost."

"I guess you are."

The use of this word nearly gave me away.

"What regiment was your friend in?"

"I don't know for sure, but think it's a Maryland company. I knew him in Texas, but we were both from Maryland, and maybe he went with some Texas acquaintances."

"Well, my friend, this is rather a singular place and time to be found hunting a sick friend."

"Yes, I know; but, as I tell you, I am lost in the darkness, and must have taken the wrong road when I left the barn. I will show you my passes."

"Oh, you have passes, have you? Come into the house and we will make a light; we can't make a light out here because we are right on the line."

As we turned to leave, the sentry or guard who had halted me whispered or spoke in a low tone to the officer. I suspected that he was telling him that I had expressed my relief at seeing his blue uniform. The officer merely nodded assent, as he invited me to walk alongside of him into the house.

I took occasion to say to him that when I saw the blue coat I was sure that I had been caught by a Yankee soldier, and expressed my great pleasure at having met such courteous Southern gentlemen.

"Well, you came very near going into the Yankees' hands; why their cavalry come out here every day, and were away inside of this point to-day, but they generally go back at night, and we come out to spend the night on the road."

Then stopping in his walk he turned and, after peering through the trees, he pointed to a couple of dimly flickering lights and said: "Those lights are in Georgetown College."

Great God! I was so near and yet so far; and as I looked at the lights I was almost overcome with emotion to think that I had so nearly succeeded and was now a prisoner in the sight of home and friends; that I had, in fact, passed the last picket and had been halted from the rear, but realizing that I must, under the trying circumstances, keep a stiff upper lip, I might yet get free.

My surprise at hearing the lights pointed out as Georgetown College was so great that I must have expressed in some way my feelings, as the officer looked at me quizzically. I ventured to express myself in some way about being so near the Yankees, as I thought I was nearer Fairfax, in a manner which probably implied a doubt as to the lights being so close at Georgetown, when he spoke up:

"I know they are, because, you see, I was a demonstrator of anatomy and a tutor at that college, and we all know about it." And as a further proof of his assertion he incidentally observed: "If you are around this country in daylight you can see the Capitol from some elevated points."

In the silence and gloom that had settled down over me, like a cold, heavy, wet blanket, we walked together to the house.

Along the fence and hitched to the posts were several horses, already saddled and bridled for sudden use, while in the porch of the house were stretched in sleep the forms of two or three men in gray uniform, with their belts and spurs buckled on.

Inside the house a tallow candle was found, and by its dim light, the Confederate officer scanned my pass, and then, turning, gave me a most searching look by the light of the candle, as he said: "This pass is all right for the inside of our lines."

"Oh," said I quickly, "I don't want any pass anywhere else. I'm glad that I found you here, or I'd have gone into the Yankees' hands, sure."

While talking to the sentry, when waiting for the officer to come up to us, I had not thought it necessary to attempt to destroy or "lose" the papers in my old hat, as I supposed him to be the Union picket; and, since the officer had joined us, there had been no opportunity to do anything with him, without exciting suspicion, which was the one thing to be avoided at that time.

When we went into the house I had, of course, taken off my hat, and as I sat there under the scrutiny of that fellow's black eyes and sharp cross-examination, I held my hat in my hand, and everytime my fingers would touch or feel the presence of the paper in the hat I was conscious of a little flush of guilt and apprehension, which happily the tallow candle did not expose.

The officer, at my request, hospitably accepted the suggestion that I be permitted to stay there under their protection until daylight, when I could return to "our army," supplementing the arrangement by the kind observation:

"We will see you back safely."

Then rousing one of the sleeping soldiers, whom he called aside and gave some private directions as to my care and keeping, he courteously told me to make myself comfortable, and apologized for the accommodations.

I was a prisoner, and I knew full well that to be escorted back through the Rebel armies with this officer's report that I had been "found at their outposts going in the direction of the enemy," would excite a suspicion that would be sure to set on foot a closer examination, and this would result in my certain detection; because the first thing they would do would be to show my forged endorsement from General Beauregard's Chief-of-Staff for his further endorsement; and I could not, of course, stand an examination into my immediate antecedents, nor explain my statements, and this would also discover my operations in the telegraph office.

As I lay down alongside of the armed Rebel trooper for a rest, I resolved that, come what might, I should not go back a prisoner—that it would be preferable to be shot trying to escape rather than to be hanged as a spy.

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