Mr. Diggs fulfilled his determination to enlist in the Union army, insisting, the very day after his capture, on becoming a member of Abner's company. Abner told him that he had better consider the matter, but he declared he needed no further time; that now he was freed from error, and the pernicious influence of Seth Williams, who had persuaded him into espousing an unholy cause, and having wronged his beloved country by taking up arms against it, he wanted to atone by fighting for it. As the Union cause needed soldiers, Mr. Diggs, not corporal now, did not offer his services in vain. He was at once enrolled, and the same day the regiment started, by forced marches, to join the Union forces under Generals Scott and McDowell, where Mr. Patrick Henry Diggs was likely to see service in earnest.

On the 20th of July, the next after the day that Abner's regiment had joined the main army, and the day before the terrible battle of Manassas, or Bull Run, Abner Tompkins sat alone in his tent. It was late. The last picket had been stationed, the last order given, waiting for the morning to advance on the terrible foe, that lay sleeping over the hills only a few miles distant. It was but natural that his thoughts should wander back to his home. He drew out a small, many-folding locket, into which he gazed with looks of infinite tenderness. It represented the features of those whom his heart held most dear—his father's face, grave and most earnest, full of kindliness and honesty of purpose; his mother's face, beautiful and proud and tender; the third face on which the young officer gazed was young and fresh and fair. He seemed to look through the clear eyes into the pure, spotless soul. He gazed long and steadfastly, murmuring: "O Irene, Irene, shall we ever meet again?"

The next and last face was that of a young man—a dark, fearless face; firmness was in every lineament, determination in every line. Fearless, yet frank; proud, yet tender; the face was that of one who would be powerful for good or evil, who would scorn alike death and dishonor.

"War has severed the ties that bound us, my brother," spoke the captain. "Why can not political differences be settled without resort to arms? It is the ambitious and the great who stir up strife, and their humble followers fight their battles. They dwell in ease and safety, while my poor brother and I cross swords and shed each other's blood to uphold them in their greatness."

He closed the locket and placed it in his breast pocket, and the look of sadness deepened on his face. There came a gentle knock on the board that took the place of a door to the captain's tent.

"Come in," said Abner.

The board was set aside, and a pale, fair youth, about eighteen years of age, entered.

"Anything stirring yet, Willie?" asked the captain.

"Nothing, captain, except an occasional picket's shot," replied the boy. "But, if you please, there is a fellow out here who wants to see you."

"Who is he?" asked Abner.

"I don't know, captain. I never saw him before. He is a bright mulatto, and he says he must see you. He is dressed in citizen's clothes and unarmed."

"Let him come in, Willie."

The youthful soldier touched his cap lightly and withdrew, and a moment later a tall, yellow mulatto entered. He looked sharply about the tent, as though fearing that some secret foe might suddenly spring upon him.

"Have a seat," said Abner, pointing to the only unoccupied camp-stool that the tent afforded.

The mulatto took the proffered seat and fixed his bright, yellowish dark eyes on the young officer.

"Well, sir, what can I do for you?" asked the captain.

"Nothin'," replied the mulatto with a grin on his shriveled yellow face.

"Well, then, what can you do for me?"

"Nothin'," the grin broadening.

"Then, sir, what is your business here?" asked Abner, beginning to lose patience.

"I came to tell you that I was—here," said the mulatto, with provoking coolness.

"Well, what do you propose, now that you are here?" asked Abner, smiling in spite of himself.

"Your name is Tompkins—you are Captain Abner Tompkins?" said the mulatto.

"Yes."

"You have a brother Oleah, who is a captain in the Confederate army, that is right across the hill here?"

"Yes. What of him?"

"Oh, he is well," said the mulatto.

"What else have you to say?" asked Abner.

"Your father is George W. Tompkins, who lives on a plantation near Snagtown?"

"Yes. What of him?"

"Oh, he's well, too."

"Well, if you have anything to say, say it and be off," said Abner.

"Your sister as you call her, who was left at your door when a baby—"

"What of her?" cried Abner, eagerly. "Do you know anything of her?"

"Yes, she is well, too."

Abner, who had been started from his seat in his eagerness, sank back, and looked at his visitor in blank amazement. At length he said, sternly: "If you have nothing of importance to communicate, leave me. I have no time for pleasantry. From your manner I expected news—bad news—"

"And was disappointed," said the mulatto, with a smile.

"Who are you?" demanded Abner.

"I don't mind letting you know my name. I am called Yellow Steve—got no other name. I just come to say I shall be around, and if you should ever need me it is most likely you will find me right at hand. I am everywhere. Can come as near as possible being in three places at once."

"You must be a remarkable person," said Abner.

"I have a remarkable story to tell you at some time."

"Why not tell me now? I may fall in to-morrow's fight."

"Then I will tell your brother."

"But he may fall. Does it concern me?"

"It is the waif, the foundling, you call sister, my story concerns. Some time you shall have it—not now."

The man disappeared through the door as he spoke, and, though Abner rushed out after him, he was gone.

He inquired of Willie Thornbridge which way the man had gone, but Willie declared he had not seen him come out of the tent. He pursued his search and inquiries, but no one else had seen Yellow Steve at all.

Abner Tompkins, on the morning of the battle, was early astir, and, breakfast over, the bugle sounded boots and saddles. Abner kept his lines well dressed, and awaited the order to advance. The skirmish lines had already been thrown out, and the distant roar of guns could be heard.

Diggs declared that war was a cruel "institution," and that he was ready to retire at as early a date as possible.

"You present a nice figure on that horse," said Corporal Grimm. "Darned if a cannon-shot could afford to miss you."

"Yes," added Sergeant Swords, "you'll present as nice a mark for the sharpshooters up on that camel's back as if you were a squirrel in a tree."

"You'll come out all right yet, Henry," said Uncle Dan, the scout, riding up at this moment, with his trusty rifle on the pommel of his saddle.

"Do you think I'll be shot, Uncle Dan?" asked Diggs, shuddering in spite of himself.

"No, not if you do enough shooting yourself," replied the old man. "Ye must watch yer chance and pop it to them so fast they can't git a chance to pop back."

At this moment a pale, fair youth, mounted on a bright bay horse, came galloping up to Captain Tompkins. He was dressed in the uniform of a United States cavalryman, with a saber and carbine at his side, and pistols in his holsters. The sight of this youth, and the nearness of the coming battle, brought sad reflections to Abner's mind. Willie Thornbridge was just eighteen, the only comfort and support of his widowed mother. Abner remembered well the bright, sunny morning when Willie bade his mother farewell, and the mother, with tear-streaming eyes and aching heart, admonished Abner to take care of and protect him.

"What have you, Willie?" asked Abner, as the youth drew rein at his captain's side.

"Something the adjutant gave me," said Willie, handing a paper to Abner, who read and, carefully folding it, put it in the breast-pocket of his coat. At this moment the bugle sounded "forward."

"Fall in by my side, Willie," said Abner, and the boy wheeled into line by his captain, with Uncle Dan on the other side of him.

"Forward!" came the order, and the vast columns of men were in motion, moving on toward those black lines of the foe that lay in the distance. The far off firing of skirmishers became more rapid.

"Are you afraid?" asked Abner of the boy soldier.

"No. With you on one side and Uncle Dan on the other, I have no fear," and he smiled in such an assuring way that Abner could not doubt him.

Uncle Dan, as we have before said was an army scout, and not a regular soldier. However, he had volunteered on this occasion to accompany Abner's company. He was well mounted, his dress was half civil and half military, and his arms were his trusty rifle and a pair of holsters.

The vast columns were rapidly moving when Diggs exclaimed:

"Oh, Lordy! I feel very sick!"

"You will feel better soon," said Corporal Grimm, his file-leader.

"Ye'll have enough soon to take up yer attention," put in Sergeant Swords.

By nine o'clock the fight began in earnest. Colonel Holdfast's cavalry was at first held in reserve at the foot of the hill. When it was ordered to advance, just as the top of the hill was reached, January became frightened at the flashing guns, and, wheeling about, dashed down the hill with Diggs' saber dangling at his side.

The bugle rung out the fearful note—a wild dash, a moment's delirious excitement—and they were at the rebel's guns. The battery was captured with but little loss, and the guns turned on the retreating foe. The whole army now advanced, and a stubborn fight ensued, which resulted in the Confederate lines slowly falling back.

Cheer upon cheer arose along the Union lines, as the foe retreated and pursuit commenced. Mr. Diggs, who had viewed the battle afar off, seeing victory perched upon the banner of the Union forces, prevailed on January to join in the pursuit, and galloping up to his regiment, waved his sword high in the air, shouting:

"Hip, hip, huzzah, huzzah, huzzah! for the old Stars and Stripes, the flag of Washington and Marion! Charge everybody! I want to get among them! They shall know that Patrick Henry Diggs can fight."

The crest of the hill was reached, and the whole Confederate army suddenly burst into view, drawn up in a line of battle, a thunderclap shook the earth, and a huge volume of smoke seemed to enwrap it. Death and destruction was hurled among the advancing ranks. The ground was strewn at the first fire with dead and wounded. Out from these columns of smoke came the fearful Black Horse Regiment, bearing down like a dark storm on the already stunned Union lines.

Retreat was the only thing, and retreat became rout and panic. It was the arrival of General Johnston, who, having eluded Patterson, had come up with reinforcements that so suddenly turned the tide of battle, making defeat out of almost certain victory.

Abner saw his men and horses rolling in the dust from the deadly fire. A score of saddles were emptied at the first volley, and a score of riderless horses dashed back frightened, to spread panic in the rear. No bugle sounded the retreat, there was no need for any. It was vain to attempt to stem the current, for his men had lost all self-control.

As Uncle Dan wheeled his horse to follow the flying regiment, he saw Willie Thornbridge sink in his saddle. Reaching out his strong arm, he drew the slight boyish figure before him on his own horse.

"Are you hurt, Willie?" the old man asked.

The boy made no reply, but the uproar and confusion doubtless drowned the old man's words. He kept steadily on, bearing the slight burden, passing the infantry, the artillery, the baggage and ammunition trains, and on, until he reached the outskirts of the retreating army.

"Is he hurt?" asked Abner Tompkins, who had drawn up a portion of his shattered company.

"I don't know," said Uncle Dan, "he has not spoken during our entire ride. Can you get down, Willie?"

There was no answer. Captain Tompkins sprang from his horse and went to assist the boy. As the old man released his hold, the young soldier fell into the captain's arms and they saw he was dead.

Dead without a pang. Dead without a moment's preparation, without one word of endearment or farewell to his lonely and widowed mother.

Just behind Willie's left ear was a small, dark-red hole, from which the purple life-blood was still oozing. The small insignificant speck, as it seemed, had opened a door, through which his young soul had taken its everlasting flight.

Taking up the corpse, the cavalcade rode sadly on for a few miles, to where the tired Union army, or a portion of it, encamped for the night.

Mr. Diggs was in the very height of his patriotism and bravery, when the arrival of the re-enforcements so suddenly changed the tide of battle.

"Oh, Lordy! I'll be killed, I know I shall!" he shrieked, and January again turned and fled before the tempest. Taking a course to the left of that pursued by the regular army, Diggs soon found himself on the outskirts of the battle. As he looked over his shoulder, he beheld a powerful cavalryman in full uniform, mounted on a horse black as midnight, in hot pursuit of him.

"Oh, Lordy! he'll kill me, I know he will," yelled the miserable Diggs, as he urged January on at the top of his speed. Casting back occasional glances, he saw that the huge black horse was gradually gaining on him.

Things had really become serious, and Diggs was in momentary danger of the ponderous saber, which the cavalryman flourished threateningly in the air as he came on like the wind. They had been flying over a level piece of cleared land, but now a thick body of timber and brush loomed up before them. There was yet a chance. Once in the timber, Diggs might elude his dangerous pursuer. The Confederate cavalryman evidently understood this, for, with a whack he sent his saber into the scabbard, and drew his pistol, without once slacking his speed.

"Oh, Lordy! I shall be killed this time sure," bawled Diggs. Again he glanced toward the cavalryman and saw him raise his deadly weapon. Diggs yelled, screamed, and implored, all the while urging January to greater speed. The wood was almost at hand.

"Bang!" went the pistol, and Diggs felt a sharp pain, as if a red-hot iron had been suddenly jerked across the top of his left shoulder.

"Oh, I am killed! I am killed!" he yelled, as January plunged into the thick underbrush.

The Confederate evidently believing he had killed the Yankee (having, indeed, the Yankee's own word for it), turned and dashed away.

January had not gone twenty yards in his mad race through the woods before he plunged into the mill-stream. Diggs' wound was not serious and the water was shallow, so he soon managed to crawl out on the opposite side, where he seated himself for a moment at the foot of a tree, gasping, spitting, and sneezing, the water running from his clothes in rivulets. "This soldier business don't suit me," he muttered, "and I know I shall be killed if I don't quit it. It is nothing but duckings, falls, being torn with thorns and shot with guns—"

A sharp firing in the woods roused him to a reality of his situation, and, mounting the dripping January, he galloped away to join his regiment.