CHAPTER XXIX. LIFE AT HEADQUARTERS ARMY OF POTOMAC--SOME STARTLING REVELATIONS AS TO THE "TRUE INWARDNESS," NOT TO SAY CUSSEDNESS, OF OUR HIGH UNION OFFICIALS--INTERESTING DESCRIPTIONS OF FAMILY LIFE AT HEADQUARTERS--"SIGNALS"--CIPHERS--AGAIN VOLUNTEERING FOR SECRET SERVICE INSIDE THE REBEL ARMY--A REMARKABLE STATEMENT ABOUT BURNSIDE AND HOOKER--INTRODUCTION TO GENERAL MEADE--A NIGHT AT RAPPAHANNOCK INTERVIEWING REBEL PICKETS.

We were encamped on the side of the hill on the top of which was the large mansion house then occupied by Burnside and Staff. My memory is not reliable as to names, but I think it was called the Phillips House; anyway, it was a fine, large house, with all the usual surroundings of a Virginia mansion of the days. There were negro quarters, smoke-house, ice-house, stables, etc. These were filled up with the innumerable crowd that are always about headquarters. Our command was in camp in Sibley tents on the hill-side or in the orchard, almost within call of the house. It was my daily habit, when not otherwise engaged (and I had the liberty of the camp), to loaf around the porch of this house. Some way there seemed to be a strange fascination in the general officer's appearance, and I took great delight in watching his every movement and in listening to the talk of the big officers on the Staff.

There was always something going on at headquarters. Either General Franklin, or the old, almost feeble-looking, but grand E. V. Sumner, or Couch, would be there as visitors, and before they would leave probably other corps commanders in the uniform of Major-Generals, with swords, and followed by their Staffs, would dash up to the fence, dismount, and strut in, with swords rattling on the frozen ground and reverberating in the big hallway.

I saw Burnside every day, and several times a day. Whatever may be the judgment as to his generalship, there can be but one opinion as to his handsome appearance and his courteous manner. I became a personal Orderly to the General, and bear my cheerful testimony that he was always courteous and kind, and most tenderhearted and thoughtful of the welfare of the boys in the ranks.

It was my privilege to have seen him frequently when alone during the dark, dreary days that followed his terrible disaster. I have often since thought that his mind became affected by his great trouble. He would do some of the queerest things; as, for instance, one evening he came out into the back part of the house, where I happened to be at the time, in company with a chum, there being no one else near. He, in his bare head, coolly walked up to us. We, of course, jumped to our feet, saluted and properly stood at attention, expecting that he would pass on, but, instead, he stopped, and, with a peculiar little laugh, said, in words that I do not now recollect, but, in effect, it was: "Tell them it's all right." Then, as if suddenly recovering consciousness, probably at our stupidity in staring at him, he turned abruptly away, saying, hurriedly: "Never mind, never mind."

My companion, being older and more experienced than I, probably felt it his duty to whisper to me, as he touched my arm: "Come; don't stare so. Don't you see the 'old man' is full?"

I believed at the time, and for a long time after, that my companion was right, but, in the light of subsequent events, and coupled with some other singular things that it was my privilege to witness in the few days that followed, I am reluctantly inclined to believe that General Burnside was crazed by his defeat, and that he had not recovered the possession of his faculties when he planned the "Mud Campaign."

But, to better explain my reasons for entertaining this view, I will explain that, a day or two after this singular occurrence, when I found an opportunity to see the General alone, I took occasion to boldly make a proposition to him. As I put the matter in writing at the time, at his request (for my own good, as he in such a kindly way suggested), it is probable that the paper may be among the records.

I wanted to go over the river very, very much—that goes without saying. As I knew Geno was in the house, the roof and one corner of which I could see, I made almost a daily pilgrimage to the Lacey House, and sat there on my horse by the hour, hoping and praying that it might be that she or some of the family would recognize me.

When I made bold to personally address General Burnside, I am afraid that I began in a rather nervous voice and manner to unfold my plan of going into General Lee's lines again. At first he looked at me a little incredulously, then, as he recognized me as being one of the telegraph and signal men about his headquarters, he said: "Why, my dear boy, I couldn't send you on such an errand as that."

But I persisted, and, to assure him further, I told him I had been there before, and wasn't afraid to go again.

"You surprise me," said the General, genially. "Come into my room and I'll talk it over a little."

I followed him into his room, where we found at least half a dozen officers already gathered; indeed, there was always a crowd of them around headquarters. While General Burnside greeted them cordially, I stood at attention, at a respectful distance, in one corner of the room, where I was wholly unobserved.

While waiting for the General to clear up the business with his callers—which, by the way, seemed to me a long, long while—I heard, among others, one little story that I do not think has ever been printed.

Some officers were quietly discussing the recent battle; indeed, this was a subject that would not down. It seemed as if the ghosts of the thousands of dead soldiers who were slaughtered before Marye's Heights and at the pontoons were haunting the memories of our Generals.

And, by the way, the boys who died doing their thankless duty at the pontoons are almost forgotten, though they are almost as numerous as those who charged up the heights. Well, one of the officers whom I heard talking on the subject that day was, to my mind then, quite an ordinary-looking man. He was a little bit stoop-shouldered; at least, his careless, loose dress gave him that appearance, while with his muddy boots and spectacles and generally unsoldierly bearing, he gave me the impression that he was a Brigade Surgeon. Another of the officers, speaking of the failure of the army, made some remark about the left not doing its share. At this the Surgeon jerked up his head and his eyes showed fire through his spectacles, as he said: "I want you to understand that my division on the left broke Jackson's line in our charge, and, if we had been sustained, the result would have been different."

There was a good deal more of this sort of talk, pro and con, to which I paid no attention at the time, because it seemed as if everybody that I heard speak was explaining something or finding fault with another, and it, of course, became tiresome. There was lots of this sort of thing around headquarters which we on the outside overheard.

One little circumstance indelibly impressed this one man's talk on my mind at the time. Holding up his battered, old, slouched hat, and sticking his bony finger through a bullet-hole, in the crown, he said, in a reply to a suggestion that "there was no enemy in front of him, as there was at Marye's Heights"—"I found it hot enough in my front."

After he left I asked who the doctor was. The man on duty at the door looked at me with disgust as he said: "That's no damned doctor, man; don't you know General Meade?"

That was my introduction to the future commander of the army. And I put it on paper here now, that Meade's Division, of the old Sixth Corps, made a charge, at Fredericksburg, on Jackson's 30,000 men (the best position of the Rebels, because higher and more precipitous than Marye's Heights) that equaled that of Pickett at Gettysburg, yet we never hear the survivors blow of it.

I had a much longer wait for my opportunity to talk with General Burnside alone on this business than the reader has in reading this story.

I might tell some secrets that I overheard that day, while lying about headquarters. My ears were always as wide open as the proverbial little pitcher's, and, besides, I had been in training so much under similar circumstances in the Rebel country that I could scarcely help picking up everything that dropped in my hearing or sight.

However, at last they were all gone, excepting the Adjutant-General and his clerk; these two were busily engaged with some papers, seated at a long dining-room table that had been drawn out for a desk. After General Burnside gave some directions about his correspondence to the War Department, he turned to me and, taking a chair in each hand, asked me to sit down, and in as courteous a manner as if I were a Major-General he began apologizing for the delay. He drew his chair right up in front of mine, looking me straight in the eye, as he said: "Now, my young friend, what is it that you propose?"

As briefly as I could put it I explained, what my plan was—to open telegraph communication from the town of Fredericksburg, inside the Rebel lines, direct with his headquarters telegraph operators. This at the first glance may seem to be a wild, visionary scheme, but that it was entirely feasible I soon satisfied General Burnside.

Those who were in the Army of the Potomac will remember the Signal Telegraph Corps. I do not mean the Military or Morse Corps, but the Signal Telegraph Corps. There were two distinct organizations doing practically the same character of work in the Army of the Potomac. As a natural consequence, these two army telegraph corps were in a state of active, bitter warfare against each other all the time. The Morse Telegraph Corps was a civilian or non-military affair under Mr. Eckert, who was located at the War Office. Through this fact, and the sinister influence of these jealous Washington telegraphers, they were successful in securing Mr. Stanton's hostility to the Army Signal Telegraph Corps.

Every old army man will remember the signal telegraph lines that were constructed, as if by magic, on the little ten-foot poles, which were stretched along the roads like miniature telegraphs, always taking the shortest cuts through the camps.

I presume that every Corps Headquarters was in immediate telegraphic connection with the General Headquarters, and that the little poles and gum-insulated wire extended to all the important outposts. This telegraph line was used in connection with the flag-and-torch system. For instance, from some elevated position on the outskirts of our lines, probably a tree-top or a distant hill, always overlooking the enemy's country (which was just over the river), would be located a signal station. Here would be found a signal officer and his squad of trained flag swingers. Those stations were equipped with the very best field-glasses and telescopes that were obtainable in this country and in Europe.

The telescope, being the larger glass, would always be found supported on a platform or tripod, and usually leveled so as to sweep the enemy's country. Each of these stations covered a designated field, equal in extent to five or ten miles. A number of these stations were arranged so that the entire front, as well as the rear, if possible, and both flanks of the enemy, were being minutely inspected every hour of the day, and any unusual movement of men or teams were at once noted and immediately reported to headquarters.

The telegraph lines were generally used while in permanent camps to convey these reports back from the front. But in case of their being disarranged or on the march, when telegraphs could not be operated, the flag-and-torch system was used.

Those who have seen these temporary wires will remember that they were apparently about the thickness of a lead-pencil, but an examination would show that a gum or rubber casing inclosed a very thin copper wire. For purpose of insulation the best quality of rubber was used, while the wire was of the purest copper. It was made in Europe to order, and, as it was expected that the wires would receive some pretty hard usage, great care was taken in its manipulation.

The wire, though as thick as a pencil, was as flexible as a piece of rope of the same thickness. It could be looped, tied and twisted into any sort of shape in the roughest, shortest manner, and be undone without damaging it. It will be understood without further explanation from me, that the purpose in having this army signal wire made in this way was to secure perfect insulation for the electric current. It was expected that, in certain emergencies, the wire could be rapidly reeled off the hose-carriage-looking vehicle that carried it on to the ground, even during a battle, and signal communication kept up through it even while it lay on the ground or in the water. A corps of men with wagons arranged to carry cords of their little circus-tent telegraph poles would run along after the reel, like a hook-and-ladder company, and were drilled to rapidly pick up the wire and suspend it overhead, where it was not liable to be injured by men or horses coming against it.

I didn't have to tell him all of this, because he already knew all about it. The telegraph and the wire were both in his sight continually. I merely said to him: "General, I will take some of that insulated wire, submerge it as a cable under the Rappahannock, and go over there myself and telegraph your headquarters every hour, if necessary, from inside the Rebel lines."

"Why, my boy, if you were to attempt to take that wire over there, the first use that would be made of it would be to make a rope to hang you."

"But I'm not going over there with a rope in my hands," I said. Then I fully explained to the General, first, that I could get into Fredericksburg in apparent safety, under pretense of being a Rebel, because I had actually been taken away from there in arrest and confined in Old Capitol Prison, by Mr. Stanton's orders, which fact was well-known by some friends in the town. At this the General's mouth opened in astonishment, and he probably began to think he was talking with a crazy man. But, after a long talk about my former experiences and my recent personal troubles with Mr. Stanton, which interested the General, especially the latter, seemed to renew his interest, and he apparently gave me his sympathy and encouragement. The poor old General was in great trouble with the War Office just then, and probably from this fact he was able to better appreciate my queer position. How very insignificant and trifling my affairs became, as compared with his own distressing, heart-breaking burden!

The General, with a deep sigh, as an expression of pain passed over his face that I shall never forget, said:

"My dear boy, I should like to avail myself of your offer, and will think it over; but," with hesitancy, as his brow wrinkled with something like a frown of distrust, "I want to say to you in the way of secret-service confidence, that the position and location of the Rebel forces has been incorrectly reported to me by the War Department Secret Service officials."

In this connection I can only explain this voluntary observation by the well-known fact that, undoubtedly, Burnside was indirectly obliged by public sentiment, expressed through Halleck and Stanton, and perhaps the President, to make his unfortunate movement over the river, in the face of an enemy intrenched on the almost-impregnable heights, against his better military judgment.

Perhaps the War Department had information of the Rebel Army that would seem to have justified the attempt. I don't pretend to know anything more about it than I have gathered from General Burnside in the way I have indicated.

In after years, when General Burnside became a Senator from Rhode Island, I was employed in the Senate as telegraph operator for the Associated Press. Major Ben. Perley Poore, the correspondent, learning from me that I had served with the General, incidentally mentioned the fact to him one day, and, in less time than I take to write it, the dear old General was in my office shaking me heartily by the hand. I met him in a business way frequently during his term, but he never talked on the subject of the war to me, except in a general, pleasant way.

I further explained, to the apparent satisfaction of the General, that I should submerge the wire in the river, at night, at a certain point, and not attempt to haul it out on the Rebel shore, except under certain contingencies, that were likely to occur, and which I could make use of from the other shore. I had studied the subject carefully; indeed, from my frequent visits to the river bank, I had evolved from my fertile brain the plan to kill two birds with one stone; i.e., to get to see Geno, at the risk of my neck, and while there, under the protection of her father and friends, who would undoubtedly vouch for me as a good Rebel, I should be able to go about unmolested, and learn the position and, perhaps, the plans of the Rebel Army, and then trust to a fortunate combination of circumstances to go and fish up my submerged wire and tap my important news to headquarters. Any telegrapher will see that this could easily have been done by the use of the little instrument, that could be concealed between the empty lids of a big watch-case. The current, or battery, was to be supplied from the other end, and all that I had to do to secure attention, or notify the operators at Burnside's headquarters that somebody was at the other end of their wire, was to merely lift the exposed end off the ground or out of the water. I can't explain all this, but that is the fact easily substantiated. The only difficulty about the plan was in getting hold of this end of the wire without detection. This was a very serious trouble; but, as I have said, I had carefully studied the thing out, and thought it over night and day.

I will admit, for the sake of argument, that my thoughts and plans were stimulated by the hope of getting over to see Geno. In my frequent rides along the river banks in search of a good landing for my cable, I had selected a point on the other side right below the piers of the burnt railroad bridge. Those who have been there will remember an old mill that was located right on the bank, the water-wheel of which seemed to be almost on the edge of the water. From this wheel was a deep ditch, or waste-way, for the escape of the surplus water into the river. Back of the wheel there was, of course, the mill-race, which was quite deep and, like a canal, sluggish. This race, as it is called, extended in a winding way up into an unfrequented part of the town.

Now, my scheme was to watch a favorable opportunity from the Union side, and, with the connivance of our own officers, the first dark night I proposed taking a coil of that wire, and, under the pretense of escaping over the river in a boat, I should, when near the Rebel shore, drop the coil with its anchor, and make a certain signal, at which our pickets were to fire their guns as if they had discovered me and were in hot pursuit.

Of course the Rebel pickets would be expected to be on the alert all the time, and, to prevent detection, I proposed suspending the coil of wire in the water from the start, attached to a rope, which I could quickly let go, and the coil and anchor would quietly drop out of sight to the bottom.

Once on the other side, I would have to run the risk of being recognized by the Rebel officers, to whom I should undoubtedly be taken at once. I hoped that by this time I had been forgotten by my old Rebel friends. Once safely through this gauntlet I should appeal to Captain Wells for recognition and release as a Rebel. There would be no trouble about that, you know.

Then, after looking the ground over, I could, at my leisure, go fishing for my coil of wire, and extend it up the mill-race either into the deserted old mill or beyond, out of the range of the pickets, and astonish the boys at Burnside's headquarters by signaling to them from the other shore. There was nothing about this plan impracticable, and General Burnside was so favorably impressed with my scheme that he heard me through with an apparently deep interest, and even suggested some changes in my project.

It did not occur to me at the time, though I learned subsequently, that one of the reasons which induced General Burnside to delay the consideration of my proposition was (very properly) to enable him to make some inquiries of my immediate officers about my past experience and supposed fitness for secret service among the Rebels. I was quietly informed of this by a friend at court.

The result of this investigation must have been satisfactory to the General. He sent after me one evening, so late that the messenger had considerable difficulty in finding me, because I was wrapped up over head and ears in my army blanket for a nightgown, so sound asleep that I did not hear my name called.

As all of us were lying around loose in that shape, looking like mummies of the same age, he took the very great risk of resuscitating the wrong one, when the Orderly gave notice that "The General is waiting for that Telegraft Signal fellow to report."

Everybody within hearing at once took a part in the search, and I was rooted out of my snug corner by the order to "Git out of here damned sudden; you're wanted at headquarters." This sort of a summons aroused the curiosity of every old soldier that happened to be around, and that's saying a good deal.

It's only those who have lived among the old soldiers (I mean those regular chaps who have been in the service twenty or thirty years) that can understand fully what is meant by exciting their curiosity with an order for a comrade to report to headquarters.

They looked upon me with various expressions of pity, contempt, envy and wonder. The general impression was that I was getting into some kind of trouble, and one comrade sympathetically whispered words of cheer and comfort; another bade me "Good-by," etc.

Being only an enlisted man, I was quartered with the "non-coms" around headquarters, my immediate chum being the Hospital Steward.

As soon as I was wide enough awake to realize the situation and understand the summons, I knew well enough what it meant, but feigned wonder and surprise, and, hastily dressing myself, rushed through the dark yard to the house before any one could question me.

There were the usual sentries around headquarters, but my man got through them quickly, and we entered the house through the big hallway. There was but one light burning there, as every one of the numerous Staff had gone off to sleep. The Orderly gently knocked at the door as if he were afraid some one might hear. A quiet voice said, "Come"; the Orderly opened the door, put on his "Regular" face, jerked himself in sideways, stiffened up, saluted, and reported that he had "fetched the man he was ordered to."

"All right; 'fetch' him a little more, Sergeant, till I see him," were the exact words the General uttered in reply, in his pleasant way. Without waiting for any further introduction from my escort, I brushed my bangs down, wiped off my chin, and stepped inside of the door, saluting the General according to the regulations. The General dismissed the Orderly with a pleasant "Ah, here he is; that will do Orderly." Turning to me, with the pen he pointed to a chair, saying: "I wanted to see you, and it seems as if the only opportunity I have is after everybody else has left me. Take a seat till I finish this note."

After expressing my readiness to wait upon him at any hour, I sat down as directed, and for the time being I was alone with the Commander-in-Chief of the Army of the Potomac.

If I were permitted to live a thousand years, that lapse of time would not efface from my memory the impressions that this singular midnight interview with General Burnside has left upon my mind.

Previous to my reporting, the General had probably been engaged with his private correspondence, and was at that moment very intent in an awkward effort at steering his pen over a sheet of paper. The General, like all other great soldiers, was a poor penman. It made me nervous watching him scratch over the paper, so that I felt like volunteering my services as an amanuensis to help him out of his labor, though I am a poor penman myself—which, by the way, is the only claim that I have for comparison with great men.

Almost everybody is familiar with the broad, honest, generous face of Burnside, with his English side-whiskers—"Burnsides"; but, like most pictures, it fails entirely to show him with his face lighted up by his happy, encouraging smile.

Though there were upward of a hundred thousand soldiers sleeping on that cold, inhospitable ground in this darkness, all was as quiet in the Army of the Potomac along the Rappahannock at that hour as if it were a great national cemetery containing a hundred thousand quiet graves. As I sat there and watched the General's features as he continued to write, the thought occurred to my mind that this one man could, by a word, call into active life every one of those around, not only on this, but on the other side of the river.

Right over the little Rappahannock River, on every one of the hills that were in the background, we knew well enough was another sleeping army; but their dreary winter camps were enlivened somewhat by their hundreds of cheerful camp-fires, the light from which seemed to flicker in our faces a happy sort of defiance at our wretched darkness. All along the river front, almost within gunshot of our headquarters, was stretched a line of camp-fires at such regular intervals that the scene resembled the lights of lamps on a long, winding street. They were allowed camp-fires on their picket-lines. We were prohibited from lighting a match at the front.

After the General had finished his task of writing and sealing the note, he rose from his chair, threw up both arms, as if to stretch himself out of a cramp, as he walked toward me, saying, abruptly: "It seems to me, young man, that you are in a position that will enable you to do us great service."

When I made a move to get on my feet to assume the soldier's first position of attention, the General motioned me back into my chair, with a command to: "Sit still; I want to stretch my legs a little while I talk this matter over," and he halted in front of me as he put the question: "Do you think you can get to the other side in safety to yourself?"

I assured him that I had no doubt of that whatever, and went on to explain that my recent relations with the people there would serve to protect me, but that I must not go in the uniform of a Federal soldier.

"Are you sure that your friends over there have not heard of your being in the army?"

I thought not—indeed, I was sure they had not—as some of my best friends in the North were not aware of the step, because I had not joined with any of the State troops, but had united with the Regulars, where I had become lost, as it were, among strangers.

During this examination I had assumed that, as a matter of course, my proposition to submerge the cable was in the General's mind. I had spent some time and considerable labor in the interval in carefully preparing a section of the soft rubber or insulated wire for this use. Sufficient length had been carefully selected and tested with the electrical batteries, and then I had put the whole Quartermaster's Department in a stew by a requisition, approved by headquarters, for some linseed oil, which was something that was not in the regulation list. I wanted to use the oil as additional coating to the rubber, as a better protection in the water. After much red-tape business, I got some oil, and put my coil of selected wire into the barrel for a good soaking.

When I began to tell the General about this additional security, he interrupted me: "Oh, never mind about that now. I fully appreciate your ingenuity, and believe that some such plan might become practicable hereafter, but (with an impressiveness that I shall never forget) we know pretty well the extent and disposition of the enemy's forces over there."

With a deep sigh he hesitated a moment, as if recalling his recent battle, that had so terribly demonstrated this fact.

"The Government was deceived to a great extent by Scouts; what I now desire is to deceive the Rebels."

I didn't "catch on," which the General probably discovered by his intent look into my eye.

"We must deceive them the next time; and if you are willing to take the risk on yourself of going into their lines, you can no doubt aid us very much better than by taking the wire along with you."

I expressed so decided a willingness to do anything, that the General smilingly said: "I see that you will do; and, as you have explained, it will be no great risk to you personally, I am satisfied to have you make the attempt." After a few more words of friendly caution, the General said, finally: "It will be better that you should make the crossing either above or below, and come up into the city. A few signals may be arranged beforehand with some of the Signal officers, which you can, no doubt, perfect yourself better than I."

I assured him that this could be easily done, and with a word or two more of caution and a suggestion to arrange my signals, and when I was ready to go to report to him, the General bade me "Good-night."

I left General Burnside's office that night without any very clear understanding of what he wanted me to do. I was only sure that I was expected to go over into the town for a purpose which he had not yet explained. This was sufficient for me. I went off in the dark to find my blanket, my head swimming with delight at the prospect of personally serving the General of the Army and the Government in a way that would at once secure advancement for me; but, best of all, I should at the same time be able to see Geno; and perhaps the fortune of war would be so altered by another move as to enable me to escort her and the Wells family away from the ill-fated old town.

But I shall leave the romantic portion—the love story—out of this narrative of fact. Perhaps some person better able than myself may in the future weave a romance from these plain statements of facts that I have somewhat reluctantly been putting down from time to time, in the midst of the bustle and confusion of my later-day work of a newspaper correspondent at Washington, yet scouting around among Rebels for news.

I found my blanket undisturbed during my absence. It had served as a sort of claim to that part of the floor in the large room over which were scattered a half-dozen sleeping men. One of the boys was wide enough awake to begin questioning me in regard to the nature of my business with the "old man"—the General was always the "old man," you know. In anticipation of this, and remembering a word of caution from the General, I had fixed up in my own mind a plan to put them on the wrong track. I explained—very confidentially, of course, knowing very well that it would get out the better and be believed if in that form—that I was to be questioned about the material necessary to build a telegraph line up to Washington on our side of the river.

It will be remembered that there was no direct communication with Washington by land from the army at Fredericksburg. Ostensibly, the Union forces occupied that portion of the territory, but, practically, the Rebel residenters, bushwhackers and guerrillas, assisted by Stuart's cavalry, infested the entire region between Alexandria or Manassas and Fredericksburg. Occasionally our cavalry were up in that region about some of the upper fords of the Rappahannock, but it was to all intents and purposes the enemy's country.

It was expected that I would convey some false or misleading information as coming from our forces to the Rebel officers. In a word, I was to become a decoy-duck.

While lying there all alone thinking this over carefully, and the exuberance of my feelings over a personal and pleasant interview with the General had subsided, I began to realize the dangerous position in which I might be placed.

The character of the decoy messages, and the manner of conveying them, the General had discreetly kept from me until the time for action. I was satisfied that I could easily get through to the Rebel headquarters and perhaps see General Lee personally. My "sympathizer"—Old Capitol story—would, no doubt, take well, especially in Fredericksburg.

The first danger that I should encounter would be a chance recognition of my "former services," but this was only equal to about one in a thousand. The only matter that I feared at all was going into the Rebel headquarters as the bearer of any important papers; they might, notwithstanding my friends in Fredericksburg, become suspicious and, perhaps, be induced to keep a watch over me as a sort of hostage for their fulfillment. If the intelligence I had taken to them had misled and caused disaster to their army, I would have to suffer.

The only way to circumvent this was to get out of the way before it was too late. Geno was over on that side, and the prospect of once more seeing her settled in my young impulsive heart the question. I determined that I would go, and go, too, as soon as possible; and with this thought fixed in my mind, I at last went off into a sound sleep, to dream of the happy hour when I should again take her hand in mine and tell her of the difficulties and the dangers I had met and so persistently overcome, that I might once more enjoy the happiness of being near her.

All the different headquarters were in direct communication with each other and the General Headquarters, as well as the Signal Station, from their points of observation, by means of this wire signal telegraph, which I have described.

This field telegraph was operated on the "induction" principle, which is the basis of the telephone patent. In the field telegraph, instead of vibrations, the induced current causes the deflection of a sensitive needle, which noisily points to letters of the alphabet on a dial synchronously with the transmitting apparatus.

Compared with the Morse system, it was a little tedious, and, at times, as uncertain as a telephone. It had the advantage, however, of simplicity. We called these "coffee-mill telegraphs." Since the war the "coffee-mill," or English system, has been greatly improved—the same principle operating the Atlantic cables. Instead of a needle revolving on the face of a dial, it is made by a wave of electricity, to simply dip or deflect, as desired, either to the right or the left of a zero point.

In this way the two simplest of all known characters are formed; i.e., the "dot" and the "dash" of the American Morse system.

This principle has an important bearing, not only in the action of this narrative, but it is the basis of a system of signals first applied to use in war by myself, as developing the practicability of signaling from even the inside of an enemy's line into headquarters of his opponent. Since our war developed its uses, it has been adopted by nearly all the Governments of the earth.

It was designed by myself that, instead of being burdened by the attempt to lay a cable under the water and concealed in the earth, through which it was hoped to signal, that I should go over to Fredericksburg and, once safely in Geno's home, I could, by visual signals, communicate directly with an accomplished signal officer to be located at the Lacey House.

This was entirely practicable. Captain Wells' house was barely discernable from the Lacey House. I was to take a position at a certain window in the Wells' House and, when alone, signal directly over the water and through the air to a window in the Lacey House, by the simple use of this dot and dash system.

Those who have seen the signal-flags and torches will remember that there were but two simple motions, one to the left and the other to the right of a perpendicular—the stroke down, or in front, merely signifies a stop—the dot (or No. 2) is represented by a quick motion to the right; a dash (or No. 1) by a motion to the left of a sender.

At the end of each word, abbreviation, conventional or prearranged signal, a "front" motion is made.

I put in the cold days and long nights in studying up signals and in arranging with my "pard" for their exchange. He entered heartily into the scheme, believing, as we all did, that I, of all others, was just the person to undertake the business, because I would be recognized as a Rebel in that town.

From an up-stairs window of the Lacey House we discovered that two windows of Captain Wells' house were plainly visible. There was also a single "dormer" window in the roof, which the bombardment had seriously damaged.

These up-stairs windows were visible over the top of another house that stood between it and the river.

There was no other point on our side of the river from which signals could be quietly made that would not attract the attention of the watchful Rebels. Even from an obscure window of the Lacey House we feared it would be risky to attempt any demonstration in the way of signals. It was on this account settled upon that very few, if any, signals should be made to me.

There would be only some common recognition of my presence. We arranged that when one shutter of the Lacey House window was open it would signify to me in the Rebel lines that my man had his telescope leveled at my window, of which I was to open one shutter to signify my presence in that room.

Now, the telescopes used in the United States Signal Service were of the very best character. It will seem to many to be an exaggerated statement when I assert that I have distinctly and clearly read flag-signals a distance of twenty-five miles, and these at the rate of fifteen to twenty words a minute, too. At night torch-signals may be distinctly read by this method. It is only necessary that the exact point or bearings of the distant signal station be known. For this purpose a first-class pocket compass was furnished each signal officer.

In this case it was not necessary to see the compass to find the window, but we located with the telescope and compass certain other points miles to the rear of Marye's Heights and the Rebel Army, which I was to find in case the window was not available.

The window was altogether the best point, provided I could get use of it, because I could sit back in the shadow, and out of view of any person outside, and be seen by the use of the telescope, especially at night.

With my hand, or with a wand or a fan, I was supposed to seat myself in that room, my feet cocked up on a window-sill, smoking a cigar and nonchalantly signal or spell out this one-two alphabet by the waves of a fan. The objection to that was that it was wintertime, and fans were not necessary, but it was generally understood that I was to use anything that happened to suit best, and to change as often as possible—merely to show a right and left motion was all that was necessary.

Circumstances may arise in the future in which some such conditions may be availed of, as they were in our war on more than one occasion. Exactly what I was to telegraph back did not occur to me. In fact General Burnside did not seem to attach very much importance to this part of the plan, which was more attractive to my own and my chum's mind than his decoy matter.

It was my intention to travel at will, through my Rebel friends in the town, and, if possible, get into the lines even to General Lee's headquarters, and hear their telegraph instruments, and if anything important was learned I should at once "open my half-shutter" and watch for the open half-shutter in the Lacey House. When they were ready to "receive" both shutters were to be opened, and as long as both remained opened they were "getting me down" in black and white. In case of the loss of a signal or a word, an attempt would be made to close one shutter, when I would see that I was to stop until signaled to "go ahead" by the opening of both shutters again.

It is not to be understood that it was expected of me to "spell out," by this motion system, every word that I might want to communicate over the river. There is scarcely a word in general use that was not abbreviated by the phonetic spelling and pronunciation, so that every message became a blind cipher, excepting to those who understood the phonetic system. For instance, the long word "communicate," which I have just used here, is reduced to two simple letters, as follows:

Communicate	km.		Communication	kmn.
Communicating	kmg.		Communicated	kmd.

The suffixes ing, ed, tion and ty to this word, and wherever they occur, were shortened by the use of the letters g, d, n, and y, respectively. I can "communicate" with a flag in shorthand as rapidly and as correctly at a distance of twenty miles as our official reporters will at twenty feet, and if the weather does not permit the use of flags, a battery of guns can be made to "km" as far as they can be heard, in a storm or in the dark.

For my own especial purpose, we had arranged a few additional signals by which I was to quickly "km" with headquarters. For instance, the important information that I had been successful in spreading the false information was to be known by a continuous repetition of the signals "sk, sk, sk," signifying successful.

I felt that I could with perfect safety to myself stand on the bank of the river, and, while apparently using my handkerchief in an ordinary way, make these two simple signs so that it would be readily understood. If I signaled re-rd, it meant General Lee was in Richmond; or Lt. was not Lieutenant, as would be supposed by any signal officer, but meant Longstreet; while a simple X was for Stonewall Jackson. Enh was "enough."

Before everything was in readiness, I was looking for an opportunity to see General Burnside and tell him of the character of our arrangements. I was disappointed in not seeing him for a couple of days; my recollection is that he was in Washington. Any way, I felt at the time that he was not as much interested in the matter as I had supposed he would be.

Finally, I succeeded in seeing the General, but not alone; indeed, he was seldom, if ever, without some sort of company. When he stopped his conversation long enough to hear me, he simply said, in his polite, kindly way: "Well, you come in and see me again, won't you?"

Of course that settled it for that interview, and I had to go off disappointed. I watched for the next opportunity, and when I sent a little note to his room to say that I was ready, he surprised me by sending out to see me one of his Staff officers, who, holding my note in his open hand, came up to me and began to explain that the General had directed him to see me, etc.

This officer said, very kindly: "The General has informed me of your proposed service, and has directed me to afford you every facility possible. What can I do for you? He is very much occupied just now."

That was very kind, but it was not exactly satisfactory, as I wanted to talk to the General; however, I told this officer I wanted to cross the river below the town, under the guise of a deserter, and, once over, to act as I should find best. He heard of my proposed signaling with amazement, and after explaining his grave doubts about the safety of such an undertaking, he told me, with a significant confidence for such a short acquaintance: "The army is to move in a few days right over into the town precisely as we did before. The General, you know, is determined to make a success of his former plan, but he especially desires that the Rebels should be led to believe that he proposed to cross below. Therefore, he directed me to say that the only directions he had were that the enemy should be made to believe this, and directed me to confer with you as to the best method of accomplishing this result."

He went on further to detail a plan of crossing the army at a place called Hoop-pole Ferry, and said they would make a demonstration in that direction, but they would cross into the town again.

It never once occurred to my innocent heart that this smooth-talking Yankee officer was lying to me. They did not intend to cross at the town, and he knew it. At this very time General Burnside was planning his campaign to cross above the town some distance, at Banks or United States Fords, and he was only prevented from doing so by the "stick-in-the-mud."

In stating so positively that he intended to redeem the army and "lead his own Ninth Corps" up that hill, right through town as before, he purposely and, perhaps, wisely deceived me, and I was in turn to further deceive, or attempt to deceive the Rebels by making them think he was to cross twenty miles below.

After I had gotten under my blanket, the night following the interview with General Burnside's Staff-officer, I instinctively felt it was my last peaceful sleep under the protection of the old flag.

It was then, when alone with myself, that I calmly and dispassionately thought over the entire matter.

I will admit that I was a little bit cowardly when the time neared for working this case in the dark. I am not afraid, however, to put myself down here in cold type as being afraid of the Rebels. I may be permitted to say, that no one soldier, in all that army, carried a greater risk than myself in being there.

It will be understood the prime motive with me was a longing desire to see Geno. For her dear sake I was willing to risk my life, knowing, if I were successful, I should win promotion and Geno at the same time.

I recalled, with feelings of intense gratification, the Staff-officer's words: "We shall cross into the town again as we did before."

It occurred to my dull comprehension that if this were to be so what would be the use in my taking any risk on myself to find Geno, by going over into the hands of the enemy, in advance of the army.

I reasoned very clearly, the more I thought over it, that it would be decidedly safer, and in every way better to answer my purpose, to ride a horse over the pontoons under the protection of our cannon than to go over alone only a day or two in advance.

General Burnside's Staff-officer, in thus lying to me about the crossing, unintentionally over-reached himself. But I had said to the General that I would go, and all the preparations had been made to signal. I could not, therefore, decently back down on my own proposal.

I was a coward both ways—afraid to go and afraid not to go.

I concluded, by way of compromise, to do as a great many of our Generals have done, who were also afraid sometimes—I would procrastinate, in hopes the army would move before I did—I would also make a "demonstration" below town, but hope to get into town by the convenient method of the pontoons.

The scene of this adventure is, of course, along the Rappahannock, the season that of the dreadful winter of 1862-3, on Stafford Heights, once the farm of Mrs. Washington, the mother of the Father of his Country.

The scenery was changing, like that on the stage, from the "snowy shroud that winter weaves around the dying year" to the more disagreeable mud that Virginia alone can supply, and that so effectively tied up everything that does not go on wings. In addition to the innumerable enemies in the front, in the rear, and on the flanks, that the old Army of the Potomac had to contend with, one of the most obstinate was the mud.

It was arranged that I should be quietly furnished with the facilities to enable me to "desert" over the river. All these arrangements were practically in my own hands. Everything that I desired was cheerfully afforded me.

During two of the coldest, most disagreeable days and nights of that memorable winter, I bivouacked with our cavalry outposts, located on the river bank some distance below the town.

I was there for the purpose of watching a favorable opportunity to desert to the other side.

That I did not go, was not to be charged to a lack of facilities. I was not in a hurry; in fact, I was hoping against hope that the whole army would move. I, at last, concluded that I should have to make a demonstration to satisfy my friends, with whom I had talked it over.

The weather was so terribly cold and rough along that river bottom that, after a few days' experience, I felt it would be a relief to get over the river, alongside of the snug camp-fires of the Rebels, which seemed to beckon me over, as an ignis fatuus. The Confederates were allowed camp-fires all along their picket-lines. We were not even permitted to light a match.

The Rappahannock, at the point patrolled by our cavalry, was narrow and deep, the banks on either side being abrupt and covered in most places by a close undergrowth of willow. Directly opposite, and within speaking distance, were the Rebel pickets. Their outpost camp-fires were in a little grove of saplings, so close to the bank that, from our side, we could see their every movement at night by the light of their fires, and could count the number of men laying about on the ground. We imagined that we could hear their snores, so close were they. It seemed as if we were on guard over them.

When their fires would burn low, one of the number would crawl from under his blanket, stir up the embers, put on some more wood, and again lie down to sleep in perfect security. There was no firing on picket-lines at that time.

During the daytime there would frequently be a general exchange of agreeable, but sometimes sharp, words between the pickets.

On our side there was a general order prohibiting this communication, but, when the officers were not around, we talked more freely with the Rebels than we would have dared with the sentry on the beat adjoining our own.

It was only necessary to call "Johnny!" to get a quick "Hello," or if Johnny called first it was "Hello, Yank."

But little, if any, reliable information passes through the lines in this way. The pickets out on the line, as a rule, know less about their own army than anyone else. Of course a stranger, or even a soldier unknown to the officers, is not permitted on the line.

What I am relating is an actual experience from real life in the picket-lines.

These incidents resulted in bringing about some remarkable developments that, in the days and months and years that followed, produced a sadly sweet influence on the lives, not only of myself, but upon that of some famous Confederate officers and the family of Captain Wells; but to tell the story of the "other side," at this time, is to be left for a future occasion. This is to be a straight narrative of one experience.

Picture to yourselves a stormy, snowy night. The men of the relief to which I had been temporarily attached, who were to be called, could not be found, because the snow had actually covered them out of sight.

Soldiers who lay down on the ground to sleep during a snow storm wrap themselves entirely with the blankets, which the snow soon covers. Strange as it may seem, we slept more comfortably and warmly when thus shrouded under the snow.

The night I had selected to cross to the enemy was of this kind. In the early part, I had slept sweetly under this white blanket of snow, and, when called up to take my position, I felt loth to stir, with such first thoughts, perhaps, as a criminal who is awakened from sound sleep on the morning of his execution.

At that time, in addition to two heavy flannel shirts and drawers, we usually wore two complete suits of fatigue uniform, one right over the other. The boots were large, and came high. Over the leather we learned, in very cold weather, to draw an old woolen sock. If the reader has never tried this, he will be surprised to see how much warmth even an additional cotton sock adds when drawn over the outside of a boot. It is equal to three pairs inside.

We also discovered that the placing of an old newspaper between blankets increased their warmth doubly without adding to the weight.

It will be seen from this description, or attempt at one, that a Union cavalryman on picket on a winter night, on the Rappahannock, resembled, as he sat on his horse, something that has not yet been pictured in any war-book that I have ever seen! Of course, under all this bundle of blankets and ponchos he carried across his knee his carbine, or perhaps it was "slung."

As a general thing, if the night was very cold, the poor picket allowed his heavily-loaded feet to hang out of the stirrups, because it assisted the circulation and kept the feet warmer than when resting in the stirrup.

Determined that I should settle the question that night, at a favorable opportunity I called, in a voice that I fear was somewhat tremulous, "Hello, Johnny!"

Not getting any reply, I waited a few moments, watching intently every movement around the fire in the little grove. Presently one tall fellow, with whiskers all over his face, whom I took to be an officer, called gruffly to one of the sleeping Rebels, as if directing his attention to the picket-line. There were a few words or growls in a sleepy tone, and all became quiet. Fearing that they would all go off to sleep again, I called out loudly, "Come down to the river a minute."

At this the officer got up, stared into the darkness over his fire as if the voice had come from a ghost in the tree-tops. Again I called: "Come over a minute; I want to give you some dry coffee."

This stirred up the officer, whose pleased smile I could see by the fire-light.

"Hello! is that you, Yank?" Then, urging the sleeper to get out, the two had some sharp words, which I didn't hear.

It was only a few moments before both strode away from the fire-light in the direction of the river. At the time I was so nervous that I thought it an hour's delay.

Our officer was conveniently absent at the time, and while I knew that I would not be molested, except as a feint, I still felt that for effect I must go quietly about this, and this feeling served to make me act the part nervously.

There was a flat-boat or raft tied on the other side. This little, square, coffin-shaped craft had been manufactured by some Georgia soldiers. The sides were straight up and down and the bottom flat. A good name for the thing is "a boy drowner"; that's what they call them on the river where I learned to swim. To navigate this concern, a rope had been stretched over the river and anchored at each side, the rope sinking under the water. That rope was there permanently, just in such shape as I had proposed to lay a cable. Our officers only knew in a general way of its existence from the fact that the little boat was drawn or ferried almost every night by means of it.

When the two Rebels that I had roused from sleep had gotten close enough and began to feel along the shore ice for the boat, which was always kept on their side, I excited them to greater exertion by saying in a whisper, intended to be confidential, but which was heard easily over the river: "I've got a canteen of commissary here I will sell or trade."

Whisky has its uses. It enters into almost every conspiracy in some shape or other; in this case it was only to be applied as a sort of taffy. The officer called back eagerly: "All right; we'll make some kind of a dicker."

The boat was scarcely safe for one and wouldn't carry double without kicking over. It was built on the theory that the one passenger would part his hair in the middle, and to get an exact balance, the "chaw" of tobacco could be shifted to that side of the jaw that required the weight. It would do well enough for a plaything in the summer time, but to risk a bath in the middle of a winter night was not to be so lightly considered.

The officer insisted on the soldier coming over. By way of persuasion I heard him tell him that if he should get a little wet, the commissary that Yank had would warm him up. That settled it.

He came over in less time than I had taken to tell about it, jumped through the bushes and stood before me on the hard-frozen ground.

Nearly all of the old soldiers of the Army of the Potomac have been a party to these little "exchange of courtesies" on the outposts, and will understand better than I can explain just how the thing was done. For those who have not seen the reality, I would suggest a picture. The scene is on the Rappahannock; the background shows the heights below Fredericksburg covered with snow. The characters in real life are the Rebel soldier and his boat. He stood by me wrapped in a dirty butternut blanket, in that style of drapery that only a Rebel soldier or an Apache Indian can adapt himself to.

I have already described my bundled-up appearance, topped off with a poncho. We were meeting at that lonely spot in the middle of a winter night, ostensibly to trade coffee and whisky for tobacco; but in fact it was, with me, a meeting for the purpose of hatching out a conspiracy as important in one sense, if successful, as was that of Benedict Arnold and Major Andre's meeting. I was there for a purpose, with the indirect knowledge and consent of the Commander-in-Chief of the United States Armies.

I preferred very much to talk with the officer; he would have the authority to grant me the privileges I wanted to negotiate for, before I should surrender my liberty.

The man in front of me was a middle-aged, unshaven, ugly-looking specimen of a Georgian or North Carolinian Tar-heel. All he knew was to do as his officer directed, and he was of a kind that would do that at any cost. Whisky was the best or quickest way to reach his confidence. The rebel and I "drank from the same canteen" on the picket-line. He did the most of the drinking, while I only pretended to take swigs of it.

The officer on the other side couldn't see what we were doing; he became uneasy and called out: "Don't fool 'round thar too long."

My rebel called back, "I'm a-comin' with some good stuff."

He went back to his boat, hauled out a lot of leaf-tobacco, and after the style of the Indians trading, laid it down, saying: "It's all I got, but there's plenty of it."

I was not making a tight bargain just then, and agreed to all his terms so readily that probably, under the influence of the commissary, he could scarcely find words to express his good opinion of me, etc.

I broached the subject uppermost in my mind by growling at our hard luck in having to stand out there in the cold. His reply to this put me off my pins entirely:

"Well, why don't you all go to your own home in your own country?"

I explained that we would like to do so, but being soldiers we had to stay here against our will.

I then mildly suggested that we felt like going over to their side, that we might have such comfortable fires, etc.

"A right smart of your men do come over."

"What do they do with them?"

"Oh, they are sent away down to the coast some place, where they are in no danger of getting caught by you all."

That was one important point learned; they would send me off South if I should go over as a deserter. I didn't intend to be sent away so far from Geno, and I decided mighty suddenly just then that I wouldn't go along back with him.

The Johnny started to return, when I asked him if he ever went up to the town. He had been there, but was seemingly as dumb and indifferent as an animal about everything but the whisky and coffee.

"I've got some friends up in town there that I'd like to send some word to. Can't you go up there and see them for me?"

"Why, yes, I'll do anything I can to oblige you; but I'll have to ask the Captain about that, you know."

Then I drew from my pocket a letter or note, sealed in an ordinary envelope, addressed to Captain Wells, and confidentially whispered as I looked around me, as if afraid some of our officers would see or hear me: "I've a sweetheart up there, and between you and me I would like to send her some word explaining why I am here. The fact is," I continued, as the fellow reached his hand and took my letter, "I only came into this Yankee army for a chance to get to see her, and if I thought I wouldn't be sent South I'd go over now."

The fellow was then so much softened by the whisky that he tugged at my hand to "Come right along; come on, old fellow." I only got away from him by proposing that he see his officer about it first, and if they could give me any assurance that I'd not be sent South I'd go over the next night I was on duty.

Again assuring him that the letter contained nothing that I should object to his officer seeing, he left me, ramming into his pocket the document containing the misleading information that General Burnside's Staff-officer had suggested that I personally convey. I had prepared the document myself, which was in the form of a friendly letter to Captain Wells and family, detailing my experience in the Old Capitol Prison, and explaining that I had joined the army as the only means to get back there; then, as if it were an ordinary bit of news, I added the decoy information to the body of the note in these words:

"I have heard from my brother, who you know is a telegraph operator at the War Department, that General Burnside has been ordered to cross the river again; but next time it is to be away down the river at Hoop-pole Ferry, so that I hope to soon be with you all once more, etc."

When the Rebel got back and had talked a while, and had probably given the Captain a swig at the commissary, the Captain called back to me to say, "Thank you, old fellow; much obliged to you, sir." Then, in an undertone, "Are you all alone?"

I signified that I was, when he said: "I know those ladies very well, and will see them myself to-morrow."

What could have been better for my purpose? It will be remembered there were two older sisters, Miss Sue and Miss Mamie. I flattered myself with the reflection that Geno was then too young for company—especially Rebel company, or any other kind but me.

In this manner I was in every way as successful in accomplishing General Burnside's purpose as if I had gone over personally; perhaps more so, as there would be no doubt in the minds of the Wells family that I was sincere in these statements, and they would indorse me strongly to the Rebel officers. If the letter had been intercepted it would have answered precisely the same purpose. The message was delivered to the Wells family, and, no doubt, the contemplated move of General Burnside below town was reported to the Confederate officers.

While General Grant was preparing for his Wilderness campaign, I learned—in some way that I cannot now recollect—that Captain Wells was a prisoner in the Old Capitol.

At the first opportunity I procured a pass from the Provost-Marshal's Office in Washington, and, calling at the Old Capitol, asked for Captain Wells. I was then in uniform, so that the outside attendants did not recognize in their visitor a former prisoner.

In a little while the Captain was shown into the room. At sight of him my heart ached. The poor old man seemed to have aged wonderfully in the year since I had last seen him. He looked at me, but his eyes were not so good, and, seeing my uniform, he probably supposed that I was one of the guard, and was about turning to an attendant to ask who had called to see him, when I spoke and reached for his hand. Then his face brightened up as he heartily shook hands, and the first words he spoke, in answer to some remark about our altered appearance as he looked at my uniform, were: "We heard you were in Stoneman's cavalry."

General Stoneman was then Chief of Cavalry, and the Southern people, after their own manner, usually named the troops after the commander. When I asked how he had heard from me, when I could not get a word from them, he looked up with that curious smile of his, as he said, significantly: "We got word from a certain good friend of ours telling us about it."

Further conversation was carried on in this guarded way, as an officer sat in front of us and heard every word that was exchanged.

When I asked the Captain about his accommodations, and proposed sending him some fruit and eatables from the outside, he warmly thanked me, adding, with the same peculiar smile: "You know about what we get here, I suppose?"

At this I had to laugh, so did the old Captain, the officer between us looking curiously from one to the other, to try and discover what the joke was that created such merriment.

He told me, then, something of the dreadful experiences of the family, in Fredericksburg, during the bombardment and battles, declaring that he should take them away from there at the first opportunity.

The interviews of visitors were limited to a certain number of minutes, and when my time was up I had to go.

In a few days after the experience of negotiating the decoy over the river, the Army of the Potomac did move, and a demonstration was made precisely as I had indicated. But the history of General Burnside's famous stick-in-the-mud march has already been so well told that I need only to add that this was his plan. If the weather had not changed, or the dreadful Virginia mud had not prevented, General Burnside would have crossed above the town, and might have been successful then, and redeemed himself.

It is now certain that General Lee would have been surprised, and have been compelled to fight the Army of the Potomac on equal terms, outside of fortifications, with General Burnside for a leader. General Hooker afterward did precisely the same thing that General Burnside is so mercilessly criticized for attempting. Hooker failed miserably, after he was over, and when everything was in his grasp. Burnside might have managed it better in Hooker's position.

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