I had not been in Baltimore three days when my plans were somewhat altered by the introduction of a fresh agent. The guide, who accompanied Lord Hartington and Colonel Leslie, had returned unexpectedly, and Symonds pressed me strongly to secure his services. He had made the traverse several times successfully, and was thoroughly acquainted with most of the ground on both banks of the Potomac. He had now made his way on foot from the Shenandoah Valley, across the Alleghany Range, to Oakland; thence by the cars to somewhere near Sykesville, on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. Here, the day began to break, and he would not trust farther to the short-sightedness of Federal officials; so he looked out for a soft place in a snowdrift, and leapt out, alighting without injury. The same reasons that made reticence useless in Hoyle's case apply here: to both men Republican justice has done its worst long ago. My new guide's name was Shipley. He was lying perdu in Baltimore when I first heard of him, so there was no difficulty in arranging an interview. After some hesitation, and not a little negotiation, Shipley agreed to pilot me through by one route or another. He was to ride my second horse, and keep the animal as a remuneration for his services, so soon as we should be fairly within Confederate lines. He would not promise to start before the expiration of a full week, as the clothes and other necessaries which he had come specially to obtain could not be got ready sooner. This new arrangement involved two changes which did not please me, viz., the elimination of poor Alick from the party, and the shifting of my saddle-bags from the roan on to Falcon, for the guide stipulated that each should carry his own baggage. Symonds, however, was very urgent that I should close with the conditions at once; he had the highest opinion of Shipley's talents and trustworthiness, and insisted that such a chance should not be let slip. He promised that Alick, if possible, should be provided with a mount, so as to be still enabled to accompany us. I could not, of course, be expected to increase my already double risk in horse-flesh.

So we struck hands on the bargain, and I resigned myself pretty contentedly to another delay. The days passed rapidly, as they always did in Baltimore on most afternoons. I rode Falcon out for exercise and "schooling." He soon became very clever at the only obstacles you encounter in crossing this country—timber fences, and small brooks with steep broken banks; though, to the last, he always would hang a little in taking off, he never dreamt of refusing.

Before the week was quite out, Alick came down from Symonds', bringing tidings of our late companions, the two Marylanders. They had succeeded in crossing by a horse-ferry at Shepherdstown—a small village not far from Sharpsburg, and about seven miles from the battle-field of Antietam. The letter was written from the south bank of the Potomac, and furnished us with all the necessary names and halting-points on the route. Now, everything looked promising again. It was soon settled that Alick and Shipley should make their way across the country to Sharpsburg with the two horses (this was the latter's own arrangement, and he, too, was unkind enough to object to my un-citizenlike appearance). I was to meet them there, at a certain house, on a certain day, traveling by another route—through Frederick city. Thither I betook myself by the train leaving Baltimore, on the afternoon of March the 10th, arriving at Frederick nearly two hours behind time, in consequence of a difficulty between the wheels and the rails, the latter having become sulkily slippery with the sleet that came on in earnest after nightfall. Very early the next morning I started for Petersville, near which village, in the shadow of the South Mountain, lay the country-house of the good-natured friend who had offered to forward me to Sharpsburg.

I shall not easily forget that drive; the distance was rather under fourteen miles, and it was performed in something over four hours; yet the load consisted simply of my driver, myself, and my saddle-bags, in the lightest conceivable wagon, drawn by a pair of horses especially selected for strength rather than speed. We traveled on a broad turnpike, not inferior, I was told, in ordinary times to the average of such roads; in many places the mud literally touched the axles, and more than once we should have been set fast in spite of the struggles of our team, if I had not lightened the weight by descending into a quagmire that reached fully half-way up my thigh-boots.

At last we struggled through, reaching my friend's house with no other damage than some strained spokes and a broken spring. There I found horses ready caparisoned, and a faithful contraband to guide me on my way. The ride was as pleasant as the drive had been disagreeable. It was positive rest to exchange the jolting and jerking of the carriage for the familiar sway of the saddle. I had a strong hackney under me, a bright clear sky overhead, and a companion who, if not brilliantly amusing, was very passably intelligent.

He was able to tell me all about the South Mountain fight: indeed, our route lay right across the centre of that bloody battle-ground. Riding along the valley, with the hills on our left, we soon came to Birkettsville: close above was the scene of the most furious assaults, and the most obstinate struggle. The quaint little hamlet—reminding you of a Dutch village—looked cheerful enough now, as the sun shimmered over the dark-red bricks, and glistening roofs grouped round a more glittering chapel-cupola; but one could not help remembering, that thither, on a certain afternoon, in just such pleasant weather, came maimed men by hundreds, crawling or being carried in; and that for weeks after, scarce one of those cozy houses but sheltered some miserable being moaning his tortured life away. The undulating champaign between the Catoctin and South Mountains, that forms the broad Middletown valley, seems to invite the manoeuvres of infantry battalions; but, climbing the steep ascent in the teeth of musketry and field-batteries, must have been sharp work indeed, though the assailing force doubtless far outnumbered the defenders. I think the carrying of those heights one of the most creditable achievements in the war.

The terrible handwriting of the God of Battles is still very plainly to be discerned; all along the mountain-side trees—bent, blasted, and broken—tell where round-shot or grape tore through; and scored bark, closing often over imbedded bullets, shows where beat most stormily the leaden hail. Near the crest of the mountain, there are several patches of ground, utterly differing in color from the soil around, and evidently recently disturbed. You want no guide to tell you that in those Golgothas moulder corpses by hundreds, cast in, pell-mell, with scanty rites of sepulture. Besides these common trenches, there are always some single graves, occasionally marked by a post with initials roughly carved. It is good to see that, after the bitter fight, some were found, not so weary or so hurried, but that they could find time to do a dead comrade—perhaps even a dead enemy—one last kindness.

Descending from the ridge, we rode some way up a narrow valley—where overhanging pine-woods and soft green pastures, traversed by rapid streams, reminded me often of the Ardennes—and then climbed the Elk Range, beyond which lies the field of Antietam. We soon crossed the creek, along whose banks was waged that fierce battle that made men think as lightly of the South Mountain fight as if it had been but a passing skirmish, and I rode up to the appointed meeting-place in Sharpsburg just a few minutes in advance of the appointed hour.

My first question, after making myself known to the good man of the house, was naturally, of my horses and men. Will you be kind enough to fancy my feelings, when I heard that they were miles away, and—the reason why. Three days before the ferry-boat had been carried away and shattered by the floods; nothing but a skiff could cross till a cable was rigged from bank to bank; there was no chance of this being completed before the beginning of the following week. The neighborhood was too dangerous to linger in; there was a provost-marshal guard actually stationed in Sharpsburg: so my men, hearing of the disaster on their road, had very properly remained at their last halting-place, about ten miles farther up the country. I was so savagely disappointed that I hardly listened to my new friend, as he proceeded to give some useful hints on our route and conduct, whenever we should succeed in getting over the river. I only remember one suggestion: "if I was stopped anywhere this side of Winchester, I might give a fictitious name, and say that I was going to visit my son, an officer in the Federal army." Now, as I have barely entered on my eighth lustre, I can only suppose that the great bitterness of my heart imparted to my face, for the moment, a helpless—perhaps imbecile—look of senility. I had no alternative, however, but to retreat, as my men had done; the place was evidently too hot to hold me: already, through the window, I saw a shabby dragoon paying auspicious attention to my horses, contraband, and saddle-bags. I was greatly relieved, on going out, to find that the warrior was too stupidly drunk, to be actuated by anything beyond an idle, purposeless curiosity. So, after receiving directions as to where I was likely to rejoin my companions, I set my face northeast again, and rode out into the deepening darkness with feelings not much less sullen than the black rock of clouds massed up behind, that broke upon, us, right soon, with wind and drenching ruin.

My horse, as well as I, must have been glad when we reached the homestead we were seeking, for throughout the afternoon I had ridden quickly wherever there was level ground, calculating on a night's rest in Sharpsburg. I had some difficulty in convincing the farmer that I was a true man and no spy; having once realized the fact, he showed himself not less hospitable than his fellows. I was not surprised to find my men gone; with all his good-will to the cause, their host had not dared to entertain such suspicious strangers longer than twenty-four hours: keen eyes and ready tongues were rife all around, and we had proof already, in poor George Hoyle's case, how quickly and sternly the charge of "harboring disaffected persons" could be acted upon: he had sent the men to separate secluded farm-houses, whence they could be summoned at a few hours' warning. He strongly advised me to wait elsewhere till the horse ferry was reestablished, of which he promised to give me the very earliest intelligence: so I at once determined to take the Hagerstown stage to Frederick next morning (the house stood not many yards from the main road), and the rail from thence back to Baltimore, leaving men and horses in their present quarters. It was evident that the honest Irishman spoke (he was an emigrant of twenty years' standing) thus in perfect sincerity, from no lack of hospitality, though in poor mood for conviviality. I did strive hard, all that evening, to meet his simple, social overtures half-way, simply that I might not appear ungracious or ungrateful.

The homestead nestles close to the foot of the South Mountain, near Middleton Gap, some miles north of the point where I had crossed that day. We talked, of course, about the battles (they were within sound, though not sight, of Antietam). I found that a field-hospital had been established in the field immediately adjoining the orchard, and that some of the wounded, chiefly Confederates, who could not be moved, had lain there for many days. I asked the good wife how she felt while the Southern army was marching past her doors, "Well," she said, "I wasn't greatly skeared, only I thought I'd pull down the new parlor-curtains; but they behaved right well, and didn't meddle with nothin' to signify; not like them Yankees, who are always pickin' and stealin'. But I'd like to get right out of this country, anyhow; we'll never do no good here while the war lasts."

I wonder how many voices, if they dared speak out, would join in the dreary "refrain of those last few words?"

No note-worthy incident marked my journey back to Baltimore. I remained there till the following Tuesday, and, in that interval, received a note from Shipley, which both puzzled and disquieted me; it was purposely vague and obscure; but, as far as I could make out, the writer thought it would be better at once to make for some point northwest of Cumberland—to retrace, in fact, the route that he had himself recently traversed; I rather inferred that he meant to move in that direction without waiting for me, leaving me to make my way to a rendezvous which he would appoint by letter. Now, of all parties concerned in the expedition the one whose safety I valued next to my own was Falcon. I had been loth to trust him, so far, to a rider about whose qualifications I knew nothing—except that it was very unlikely he would have good "hands." I had no notion of risking the good horse, without me, on an indefinitely long journey, where he might be indifferently cared for. I wrote at once to stop any such movement; and with this I was forced to be content.

Late on the Monday evening, the expected summons reached me—sent specially by train. The next morning I started for Frederick, whence I intended to drive through Middletown to Boonesborough, near which was the place of meeting. The first thing I saw in the morning paper, when I began to read it in the cars, was a fresh general order, suggestive of most unpleasant misgivings. General Kelly had just succeeded to the command of Maryland Heights, and of the division specially selected for picket duty on the river. This—his first order—enjoined the seizure of all boats of every description between Monocacy creek and St. John's (comprising the whole of the Upper Potomac); no passenger or merchandise could be conveyed from Maryland into Virginia without a proper pass, and then only at the two specified places—Harper's Ferry and Point of Rocks; any one transgressing this edict was liable to arrest and trial by martial law.

Throwing down the ill-omened journal, I could not forbear a muttered quotation: "The day looks dark for England." Nevertheless, I drove on straight from Frederick, determined to prove what the morrow would bring forth. It was late when we reached the small roadside hotel, on the ridge of the South Mountain, where I had arranged to halt for the night; but, late as it was, I had time to hear fresh evil tidings before I slept.

The Shepherdstown ferry was in working order at noon on the Monday. The same evening, soon after dusk, four mounted men, with two led horses, rode down, requiring to be set across instantly. The ferryman objected, stating that his orders were imperative against putting any one over, after sundown, without a special pass. The men insisted, stating that they bore dispatches from Kelly to Milroy, and enforced their demands with threats. The unhappy ferryman was totally unarmed, and only wished to escape. They shot him to death without further parley, under the eyes of his mother and sister, who saw all from their windows. Then they ferried themselves and their horses across, and left the boat on the Virginia, bank, after knocking out two or three of her planks. Naturally there was a great revulsion of popular feeling in the country, and there had been a real Émeute round the murdered man's grave. When they had buried him, that day, in Sharpsburg, no one, suspected of Southern sympathies, could venture openly to appear. From all that I could learn, the authors of that butchery were not Confederate soldiers, or even guerrillas, but purely and simply horse-thieves, who had come over with the sole object of plunder, tempted by the enormous prices that horse-flesh could then command in Virginia.

Very early the next morning I had a visit from the Irishman, who lived hard by. Things did not look less gloomy when I had heard what he had to tell. To begin with, that unlucky tongue of Alick's had been doing all sorts of mischief. He never touched strong liquors, so there was not even that excuse for his imprudence. Instead of remaining quiet in the secluded retreat to which he had been, sent, he would persist in hanging about in the immediate neighborhood of Boonesborough, and appeared to have spoken freely about our projects, greatly exalting and exaggerating their importance; indeed, he could scarcely have said more if we had been traveling as accredited agents between two belligerent powers. Such vainglorious garrulity was not only intensely provoking, but involved real peril to all parties concerned. I thought the Irishman was perfectly right in taking that blundering bull by the horns, and acting decisively on his own responsibility, inasmuch as there was no time to communicate with me. He insisted that the Alabamian should quit the neighborhood without an hour's delay—there had already been talk of his arrest—furnishing him with certain necessaries and a few dollars on my account. In despite of the edict aforesaid, there were still punts and skiffs concealed all along the river bank, and a footman unencumbered with baggage could always be put over without difficulty. Indeed, Alick had actually crossed into Virginia, and returned safely, while he was loitering about Boonesborough. I never saw the Alabamian again, though I heard from him once, as will appear hereafter. He carried away with him my best wishes and my revolver; I hope both have profited him. Where caution or diplomacy are not required, his sterling honesty and dogged courage will always stand him and others in good stead; if his superiors can only tie up his tongue, I believe they will "make a man of him yet."

As to Shipley, I found that it was not considered prudent for him to await my arrival there, as a search might be made over the Irishman's premises at any moment. He had been sent back on the previous afternoon to a house near Newmarket, a village some thirty miles east of Boonesborough, so that we must almost have crossed on the high road leading to Frederick city; there I was certain to find both him and Falcon.

The Irishman was decidedly of opinion that to persevere in our enterprise at the Shepherdstown ferry or anywhere in the immediate neighborhood, would be not only the height of rashness, but absolute waste of time. He advised our striking northward at once, by the Cumberland route, which then appeared to be the only one offering possible chances of success. Even on the Lower Potomac, the cordon of pickets and guard-boats had been so strengthened of late as to become well nigh impervious, and captures were of hourly occurrence.

Slowly—and I fear rather sullenly—I admitted the justice of my friend's counsel, as I walked down to his stable, where the roan had been standing since Alick's departure. Perhaps even while I write, the war-tide is surging backwards and forwards once again past the doors of that cozy homestead; but I trust its roof-tree is still inviolate by fire or sword, and that no rude hand has scorched or torn the "new parlor-curtains," in which my trim little hostess took an innocent pride. It was past noon when I bade farewell to my friends, and mounted the roan, to strike Shipley's back trail. There was a light blue sky overhead, though the wind blew intensely cold, and hoofs on the hard frozen ground rang as on pavement. For the first eighteen miles or so, which brought us to Frederick, my horse stepped out cheerily enough, though he carried far more weight than he had yet been burdened with, in the shape of myself and full saddle-bags. Here we baited, an obscure inn which had been recommended to me as "safe;" and late in the afternoon held on for Newmarket. I found the farm-house I sought without any difficulty, but the owner was down in the village, a mile or so off. Without dismounting, I asked to see the mistress, and a thin, sickly-looking woman came to the door. At my first question—relating of course to Shipley—a glimmer of distrust dawned on her pale, vague face. "There was no one there except her own family, and she had never seen or heard of a man on a brown horse." I was too thoroughly inured to disappointment by this time to feel angry—much less surprised—at anything in that line. Evidently I had to do with one of those impracticable yet timorous females—strong in their very weakness—who will persist in bearing a meek false-witness till the examiner's patience fails. So my answer was quiet enough. "Pardon me, I think your memory is treacherous. You surely must at least once in your natural life, have seen or heard of 'a man on a brown horse.' But if you have known nothing of such a remarkable pair within—the last month for instance, I fear you can't help me much. If you will tell me where to find your husband, in Newmarket, and allow me to light my pipe, I'll not trouble you any more." These benevolences the pale woman did not withhold, but she saw me depart with a wintry smile, and I heard her distinctly mutter to a handmaiden—fearfully arid and adust—who peered over her mistress' shoulder, "There's another on 'em, I know."

I found the husband in Newmarket, easily enough—at the "store," of course: this is invariably the centre of all gossiping and liquoring-up, in such villages as cannot boast a public bar-room. When I delivered certain verbal credentials, he was disposed to be more communicative than his spouse; but his information was not very clear or satisfactory. It appeared that on the previous morning, some hour before dawn a man had knocked at the door and asked for shelter: from the description, I at once recognized my guide and Falcon. But, for once, Shipley's over-caution told against him: he not only declined to give his name, but would not state, precisely, whence he came or whither he was going: there were many Federal spies about, laying traps for Southern sympathizers; so the former got suspicious, and instead of welcoming the stranger, prayed him to pass on his way. This solitary instance of inhospitality is thus, I think, easily accounted for. I could not blame my "informant;" but the state of things was enough to chafe even a meek temper: the roan's long legs had begun to tire under the unwonted weight before I reached Newmarket, and he rolled fearfully in the slowest trot; yet I had sworn not to sleep before I laid my hand on Falcon's mane, and I felt, with every fresh check, more savagely determined to keep the trail as long as horse-flesh would last under me. I knew there were few places in that county where Shipley would dare to trust himself even for a night's lodging: some of his relations lived within half a league of Symonds; and, if he meant fairly by me and mine, he was certain to advise the latter of his return: so I resolved to push straight on for my old quarters. Between me and the wished for gÎte there lay sixteen miles of hilly road—darkling every minute faster.

I do not care to remember that dreary ride—or rather, walk—for two hours, at least, of the distance were done on foot. For awhile I had pleasanter companions than my own sullen thoughts: a pair of blue-birds kept with me, for two or three miles at least, fluttering and twittering along the fences by my side, with the prettiest sociability—sometimes ahead, sometimes behind—never more than a dozen yards off; their brilliant plumage shot through the twilight like jets of sapphire flame: I felt absurdly sorry when they disappeared at last into the deepening blackness. I had been warned of the probability of encountering a cavalry picket somewhere on my road: so I was not greatly surprised when the possible peril became a certain one. I was riding slowly up a low, steep hill, about ten miles from Newmarket (I think the two or three houses are dignified by the name of Rockville), when I saw the indistinct forms of several horses, and the taller figure of one mounted man, standing out against the clear night-sky on the very crest of the ascent. I drew rein instinctively; but in that particular frame of mind, I don't think I should have turned back, if the gates of the old Capitol had stood open across the road. So I jogged steadily on, trying to look as innocently unconscious as possible. Seven or eight horses were picketed to some posts outside what I conclude was a whisky store; the troopers were all comforting themselves within: the intense cold had probably made the solitary sentinel drowsy, for his head drooped low on his breast, and he never lifted it as I rode past. I could not attempt to make a run of it, so I did not quicken my speed, when the danger was left behind: indeed I halted more than once, listening for the sound of hoofs in my rear, in which case I meant to have made a plunge into the black woods on either side, so as to let the pursuit pass. Hearing nothing, I dismounted again, and strode on rather more cheerfully.

The roan was not more glad than his rider, when we groped our way up the lane, leading through fields to Symonds' homestead. The good wife came out quickly, in answer to my hail, her husband being absent, as usual.

"Oh, Major," she said, "I can't say how glad I am to see you. Shipley's so anxious about you: he hasn't been gone half an hour."

"And the brown horse?" I broke in.

"He's in the stable; and looking right well."

With a huge sigh of relief I flung myself out of the saddle.

"That'll do," I said, "Mrs. Symonds; I don't want to hear another word, unless it relates to—ham and eggs."

Truly, I fear that the neat-handed Phillis must have been aweary that night before she had satisfied Gargantua. A messenger soon summoned Shipley, and he was with me before midnight; he explained all his movements satisfactorily, and I could not but acknowledge he had acted throughout discreetly and well. We sat far into the morning, discussing future plans. Ultimately it was settled that he should start with the roan, so soon as the animal should be rested and fit for the road, traveling by moderate stages, to some resting-place near Oakland. The rendezvous was to be determined by information he would receive in those parts; and I was to be advised of it by a letter left for me in Cumberland. Shipley reckoned that it would take him ten days at least to make his point. This interval I was to spend in Baltimore; from which I was to proceed, with my horse, to Cumberland, in the cars. This plan had the double advantage of saving Falcon over two hundred miles of march, and of enabling my guide to make his way, more securely, as a solitary traveler. He could not trust himself on the railroad, nor would it have been safe to attempt the transport of two horses.

So, on the following day, I made—anything but a triumphant—entry into Baltimore. Kindly greetings and condolences could not enable me during that last visit to shake off a restless discontent—a gloomy distrust of the future—a vague sense of shameful defeat.