My telegraph operations were interrupted for a while by a personal incident, that occurred while I was still supposed to be on "sick leave." One night I was in the barber shop of our hotel, getting myself primped for an evening out with my Maryland boys. While lying back in the barber's chair, all covered up with lather and towels, I was startled to see through the glass, in my front, an apparition that had as great an effect on my nerves for the time as the traditional story of the devil looking over the shoulder of those who worship the looking-glass too much.

I beheld, like a ghost, walking right up to my barber the superintendent of the railway station at Manassas—the identical gentleman to whom I had been sent by General Beauregard, and who would, of course, at once recognize me.

My barber held his razor in his hand while he stopped to tell this gentleman that "his turn would be after me."

It will not be possible for me to describe the sensations that I experienced the day when startled by the apparition, which appeared as though looking through a glass window in front of my chair. Standing apparently in front of me was the one person, of all others, that I most particularly desired to avoid meeting in such a place as the Capital of Rebeldom at this time. Of course he must have learned, from the officers at headquarters, of my attempted escape to Washington, via Fairfax and Munson's Hill, and the subsequent chase through the woods the following night, in common with all the rest of the officials with whom I had been in contact about the telegraph offices at Manassas. He would, upon learning of this attempt to get away, recall all that I had been doing about the telegraph office during those few days; and, if careful examination were made into my past history, I knew that they must discover my true character.

While talking to my barber about his turn, this gentleman stood right behind my chair, so close to me that his arm almost touched my bare head, that was lying back on the cushions. He looked in the glass while talking, stroking his face which certainly needed the attention of a barber, as he had just come from the front. My face was entirely covered with the soapy lather.

The barber stood with his razor suspended over my head as he talked to the "customer." I am sure my face must have first turned as white as the lather. When I spied this gentleman, if I had not been already lying down, I am afraid that I should have suddenly collapsed, or have attempted to run off. As it was, being so muffled up in towels, and so completely disguised or masked by lather, and fastened, as it were in the stocks, by mere fright, I was prevented from making an exhibition of myself, and lay there for the time being as distressed as a wounded soldier on an amputating bench under the hands of surgeons, and as helpless as if under the influence of ether.

He was so much interested at the appearance of his own face, as he saw it in the glass over my head, that he did not closely scrutinize me; in fact, he could have only recognized me at that time, perhaps, by my eyes and upper portion of the face. And while he stood there I half closed my eyes, and purposely corrugated my brow. It was, of course, something of a relief to my suppressed emotions when, after an admiring stare at himself, he was sufficiently satisfied to go off and sit down among the other persons who were waiting their turn. I breathed a little freer, and gave such a great sigh of relief that the barber who was shaving me looked down at me with something of an expression of wonder in his black face. I quietly recovered myself, however, and began instinctively to plan to get out of that shop as quietly and as quickly as possible.

It would not do to get out of the chair, which had concealed me so well, until this dangerous apparition itself should be shrouded in a napkin and laid out on the chair, so that he could not have a free view when I should be ready to get out. He must not follow me in the chair I was occupying, as that would probably put us face to face, as when I should rise to give place to him. To prevent this, in an undertone I told the barber that I had been suffering with a toothache, and if he would give me a careful and slow shave and wash, that I would allow him double pay for the greater time he would have to put on me. This was a successful and cheap way of getting out of so great a pickle. I had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Superintendent invited into a chair a little way over from where I was located, and he had no sooner got safely tucked in than, I fear, I rather abruptly told my man: "That will do; I will go now." The suddenness and celerity with which I crawled out of the chair and hauled on my coat and sneaked out of the door must have surprised that barber, and, if he had seen me get along the street and around the corner into the hotel office, he would have been puzzled still more. A glance at the hotel register showed not only the name of the superintendent at Manassas, but also that of another well-known railroad man, who had been about the station at Manassas nearly all the time I was up there. Without asking any questions, I stalked straight to my room, with a determination to gather up any valuables that had accumulated during this sick time, and to at once put as much distance as possible between myself and the ghosts that I had just encountered. I did not have the remotest idea, at that time, as to where I should go. My only desire was to get away from Richmond and out of Virginia as quickly as I possibly could.

I was homesick. There is nothing that will make a man or a boy so awfully homesick, when away from home and realizing that you cannot get there, as to meet with some such "unpleasantness" as this. It is a much more satisfactory thing, as I know from subsequent experience, to meet your enemy on a skirmish line, knowing the gun in his hand is cocked and loaded, than it is to run across him while unarmed on his own dunghill. I did not like the idea of being "caught" as a spy. I always had more dread of the attendant humiliation connected with the probable surroundings of a prisoner, who was a recognized Spy, than of the final danger.

When I reached my room, I found my two clever Maryland refugees there. Probably my manner and appearance still showed some signs of my agitation, as they both immediately became interested in me. The Colonel, who was the jolly fellow of this trio, said, laughingly:

"Hello, boy, what have you been up to?"

Fortunately for me, they both attributed my apparent embarrassment to a trifling matter, and did not pursue it further. Elkton, the older and more staid member of the refugee band, told me, with great glee and pleasure, that he had received an assurance from the Rebel War Department that his quota, or the detachment of refugees that he had been gathering up, would be specially provided for as a part of a Maryland company of light artillery which was then organizing. He would be the First Lieutenant of this company, and, as such, would, of course, see that his boys were well taken care of. It was further explained that his quota would be permitted to form a detachment of itself, or, at least, it would be so arranged that one section of this proposed battery would be in charge of his own men. This plan was not exactly what Elkton and the Colonel had calculated upon when they left their comfortable Maryland homes to join the forces of the Rebels. Elkton probably expected to be at least a Colonel, and the Colonel himself evidently considered himself entitled to at least a Lieutenant-Colonelcy in the Confederate armies. They might have attained to this position if they could have furnished sufficient recruits themselves to have filled out a regiment. As it was, they were sadly and sorely disappointed in not finding the rush of refugees from Maryland which they had expected, and they were obliged to be satisfied with the best they could get, which was a lieutenancy for Elkton, and a sergeantcy for the Colonel. In all these talks and plans, it had been calculated by both of these gentlemen that I should, as a matter of course, join the army—as one of their detachment.

I never intended to do this. Under the peculiar circumstances under which I was placed, resulting in my sickness in the enemy's camp, and in order to further my own purposes and objects, which were solely to better collect information for the use of the Government, I had allowed them to think that I would at the proper time go with them.

Everything is fair in love and war.

This sort of artifice or scheme for deceiving a traitorous enemy in time of war, adopted on a large scale by the best generals, is termed by them "strategy"—but however disinterested the motives or inspiration of patriotism of a spy, who encounters for his country even an infamous death, his work has been recognized as something necessary, but "treacherous." While I am not attempting the writing of an essay, yet I may be permitted to insert here that "The work or the purpose of a spy is not more 'treacherous' than that of a general's 'strategy.' Both necessarily imply deceit. There is only a difference in rank or degree."

Very often the spy's "treachery" enables the general to apply his "strategy," and, perhaps, the poor spy has made the success of some of the greatest generals possible.

My desire was to stave off as long as possible this plan. I hoped, before the necessity for it should occur, to get away from them and return home.

So it came about that the time was approaching when I must either enlist or leave, and as I had that day so narrowly escaped an encounter, or detection in the barber shop, I decided very quickly in my own mind that I should leave.

As previously indicated, I had studied as far as possible from all the maps that I could get access to, and learned pretty well the topography of the James River country. My Maryland friends who had come over had fully explained their trip by the Potomac River crossing, and I gathered at once that their route was very like what fisherman call a set-net—it was a very easy matter to get into the net, but it was difficult to find the way out again. In fact, it was only the favored few who were in the service of the Confederate Government that were permitted to escape backward. I knew very well that I could offer no satisfactory reasons for going in that direction, and that, if discovered in attempting to do so, it could not help but lead disastrously to me.

I kept pretty close to my room, being taken conveniently "sick" for a day or two.

The leaves on the large trees in the park were beginning to take on their beautiful autumnal colors. The air itself seemed to be clearer and more bracing, and I again began to feel well enough—was ready to undertake almost anything in the way of adventure.

One evening, when the Colonel and I were alone, he told me that Elkton, who had been almost a daily visitor at the War Office—looking after his commission—had learned on direct authority that:

"The army under Generals Johnston and Beauregard will very soon advance, and we must get in at once, because," he added in great glee and with significant emphasis, as he tapped me familiarly on the shoulder as he uttered each word: "The plan is to march into Maryland, and capture Washington and relieve Baltimore."

This was the most interesting bit of news that I had heard for some weeks, and its dramatic recital set my nerves all up to a high tension. Eager to learn more, I questioned the voluble and confiding Colonel, who was eager enough to talk.

"Oh, I know it's true; and, my boy, I tell you truly that, before very long, we will march right into that portion of Maryland from which you came."

I was further encouraged to enlist with them, when the Colonel said: "Why, my dear boy, we will all soon march home to 'Maryland, my Maryland,' and be received by our friends in our gray uniforms."

This last part of the programme rather stumped me. I was not particularly desirous that any of my friends should "receive me in gray uniform."

I shared his enthusiasm in one respect, however—that it would be glorious to be doing something once more—and I even hoped they would move into Maryland, as that would serve to stir up McClellan and the North. I saw in this proposed advance into Maryland a good chance to again safely go through Beauregard's army, which I was willing to risk in this shape if, by so doing, I could learn of any proposed movement of the Rebels on to Washington, knowing very well that once in that country, in a Rebel uniform, I could safely "advance" into Maryland some hours, and perhaps days, before the Rebel Army, so that our friends could be prepared to suitably give their distinguished military visitors a warm reception, and entertain them in the proper form after they should arrive.

The Colonel went out to the bar to take a drink.

I sat down and built up another cipher letter, in the same key as I used in the former. It was about the same form as the preceding, being carefully worded, so as not to excite any suspicion. The real information which it conveyed to my Northern correspondent was to this effect, briefly, as each fifth word read:

"Proposed advance north via upper Potomac."

It was short and to the point, because I had not time—at least I thought I should not have—to "cipher out" a longer dispatch, as I wanted to get this through quickly. With this in my hands, I joined the Colonel down stairs, and together we walked along to Colonel J. B. Jones' office, and on the other side of the square.

The evening previous, while venturing out, I had first been careful to ascertain, by a cautious inspection of the people about the hotel, before I should approach any of the groups of men always loafing about the hotel, that my superintendent from Manassas was not among them.

I cautiously inspected the register, and, at a favorable opportunity, remarked to the gentlemanly clerk, as if I were surprised and delighted at the discovery:

"Why! is Mr. Superintendent here?"

The Richmond hotel clerks are like the same fellows every place else, and he did not deign a response to my inquiry as he was talking to another party. I looked, perhaps, rather inquisitively at him, finally attracting his attention, as he turned to a colored boy and said, apologetically:

"Show this gentleman up to 62."

"Oh, no! never mind; I'll not disturb him to-night; I'll see him again."

I didn't ask any further questions.

The next morning I was greatly relieved to learn from a colored porter that the Superintendent "Had gone off on de early cahs."

It was late in the evening when the Colonel and I called on Colonel Jones with my letter. I remember this, from the fact that the genial Colonel was preparing to close his office for the night, but he kindly took charge of my open letter, and, without a word of question, placed it in a pigeon-hole, in which were quite a number of other sealed letters. I asked, with an assumed expression of deep interest and anxiety in my manner, if the Colonel had any letters for me.

"Nothing at all undelivered," he said, as he politely expressed his regret at having to disappoint me. I felt so sorry, too, and with a sigh of relief and an uttered hope for better luck next time, bade the Colonel a good-night.

This information of the threatened invasion of Maryland, and the capture of Washington and Baltimore, had apparently put new and fresh blood into my veins. I felt that I must find out all about it, because I was in Richmond for that purpose, and if I failed or permitted so important an event to be planned and put into operation right under my own eyes, it would prove pretty conclusively that as a Spy, or scout, I was not reliable, and, after enduring so much hardship, I could not afford to fail in this important matter.

So I told the Colonel that I was most anxious to go with him and Elkton to Maryland as a Rebel soldier.

While they were arranging the details with the War Office, and some of the other Maryland refugees with whom we were to be consolidated, I put in my time scouring every avenue of information that I could think of, for some confirmation of the reported plan to advance. I was more deeply interested in this than I can explain; because, aside from my personal feelings and sympathies, I had, as will be remembered, a month or two previously advised our Government that an advance was impossible, on account of so much sickness and general laxity of discipline, etc.

But that information was based upon a condition of things which existed shortly after the battle of Bull Run.

It was now about the first part of October, I think, and during the time that had elapsed the condition of affairs at Manassas had changed very much, of course. The Rebel Army had been sick—like myself—but had now sufficiently recovered to carry the campaign further, and be in good shape for an offensive movement.

The Confederate authorities at Richmond were fully posted on all that was being done at Washington.

I am not sure but that there was a daily mail from the North. I wanted very much indeed to learn something about the manner of this system of communication, but I was always afraid to meddle too much about it while I was in Richmond, lest I should get picked up by some of the knowing ones among the Rebel spies and sympathizers, who were even in the employ of our own Government.

It was intimated in my hearing, while in Richmond, that the wife of President Lincoln was at heart in sympathy with the South; and that her brother, a Mr. Todd, who was in the Confederate service, was in communication with her. No person of good judgment ever believed in this story. I only mention it because some of the Rebel officers talked of the matter in a self-satisfied way.

One of my regular morning walks in Richmond was to go to the newspaper office, in Main street, to read their daily, which was posted on a file outside of their office. There was usually quite a crowd about the office early in the day, because paper was becoming quite scarce in Rebeldom and a daily paper was too expensive a luxury for every one to enjoy, especially in my circumstances. I found, too, while standing about in the crowds, that I could overhear a great deal of comment on the news—that was more satisfactory to me as a spy than the news the paper contained.

The Richmond press regularly quoted the principal New York papers of only a day or so preceding. Of course, all the unfavorable criticism of the Union military officers, and especially the opposition to the administration of Lincoln on the part of Northern Copperheads.

If some of these old Coppers could have been in Richmond while under the Confederate free government, and have experienced something of the "gratitude" extended to them in their words of comment, it would have been a benefit to the country, in this way—that it would have dried up a great deal of Northern sympathy.

It seemed to me to be the general sentiment among Southern people of the more intelligent class, in response to this exhibition of Copperhead sympathy, was oftenest expressed in words similar to this:

"Why don't they come over and help us now?" "What are they talking about so much; why don't they come on?"

If I heard that sentiment expressed once, I've heard it perhaps hundreds of times, in different forms; but it seemed to me, even then, that there existed a general contempt on the part of the better people South for those in the North who sent their sympathy and encouragement through the newspaper exchanges.

On Main street, nearly opposite the newspaper office, was the general telegraph office, through which all communications by telegraph was had to all parts of the Southern Confederacy.

Inside, the office was arranged pretty much in the same general way as a bank: There was a high counter dividing the room lengthwise; that is, from the front about two-thirds of the way back, where it turned in an L-shape across the room. The front door opened into this office. Around the walls were placed the usual conveniences for writing messages, which were to be handed in at the little windows through the glass counter. I called frequently at the office for a message, which I pretended to be expecting.

It never came.

But I was not discouraged, and kept up the visit until the delivery clerk got to know me so well that he would answer my question before I put it. I thought it would be well enough to try something through this channel, and every time I went inside the office, I lounged listlessly about long enough to hear the sound of the instruments, and I never failed to hear something from the sound of the brass-tongue tickers, but that something always happened to be of no consequence. It would usually be some private message, or perhaps a long order from the army headquarters office about some commissary stores.

I remember that I was impressed at the time, from the amount of telegraphing going on on that subject, that there was certainly a war between the Commissary Departments at Richmond and the officers in the front.

I did not dare tarry too long at a time, for fear that my constant attendance at the office might excite some suspicion.

It was only while I was on the alert to get something tangible about the proposed movement of the army that I was willing to take some extra risks to obtain official information.

It was evident, from the increased activity about the offices of the War Department, that something was up. Since I had heard of this proposed advance, I was giving the Departments considerable attention, and rarely missed an opportunity to see as far as I could from the outside what was going on inside.

From my bench, under the trees in the park, I could see that the office was being besieged almost constantly by crowds of people, mostly members of their Congress, who had to pass my seat on their way from the Capitol building to the War Department.

They went in groups of two to four at a time; sometimes a Congressman would be accompanied by an officer in the gray uniform.

As they passed me, their conversation seemed to be animated—in short, there was a general feeling among the crowd, as far as I could gather anything, that something important was pending.

Yet I had no facts—simply surmises, and gossip.

I could not learn much at the telegraph office, and had about abandoned the attempt in that direction, until I struck a plan that was a little risky, but, under the circumstances, I felt justifiable in undertaking almost anything.

Noticing a messenger leaving the War Department, I followed him at a respectful distance. He went straight to the telegraph office; so did I. I entered the door just a moment after him, and was carelessly edging toward the delivery clerk, to put my stereotyped interrogation to him, when he said in my hearing to the messenger:

"Shall we send dispatches from the President to Mrs. Davis at her home to-night?"

"There wont be any; he is expected back to-night."

Jeff Davis was at Manassas then. I felt really as if I had been derelict in my duty, in thus permitting the President to go out of town without my knowledge and consent. But he was coming back; that was comforting to me. I felt sure now that the rumors of an advance had been confirmed. I knew something was in contemplation, and I should not leave Richmond at that time—certainly not until I had ascertained what it was that they proposed doing, and when it was to be done.

I went straight to my room, wrote a short dispatch—a rather crude one—the translation of which was that:

"Jeff Davis had been to Manassas; something up." And before I slept it was in Colonel J. B. Jones' postoffice.