The Boy Spy / A substantially true record of secret service during the war of the rebellion, a correct account of events witnessed by a soldier

by Joseph Orton Kerbey

SENT TO FIND GENERAL BUFORD—A HASTY RIDE—THE BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG—CEMETERY RIDGE—GENERAL DOUBLEDAY—GENERAL HANCOCK—THE SECOND DAY OF THE BATTLE.

It was the Rebel Scout, Harrison, who gave to General Lee the first information about the close pursuit of Hooker. This one faithful tramp Rebel soldier carried on foot to Lee and Longstreet at Chambersburg the important intelligence that Hooker had crossed the Potomac, and General Lee, on the report of this single scout, in whom he had implicit confidence, issued orders at once recalling his forces from the front at Harrisburg, and concentrating his entire strength at Gettysburg. I mention this fact, because it is the only instance on official record of a great General giving credit to his Scout or Spy for important secret service.

This solitary Scout succeeded in doing for General Lee alone what was expected of Stuart's large cavalry force, and which they failed to accomplish.

I was sent out from Frederick with orders to find General Buford, who commanded the Cavalry Division in the advance. It was expected that I would be of service in military signaling, and especially in opening up communication with Washington and Baltimore by wire. This was my special duty, and when we ran into a country where there were telegraph wires, I became quite an important fellow; all the Generals being so anxious to get or send news, they cheerfully afforded me all the detail of soldiers I could use to help me.

I found Buford, but when I got to him he was so busy out on the hill, on the morning of July 1st, that he didn't have any time to talk to me. The night before the battle I spent with some of Buford's headquarters men near a town called, I think, Middletown or Middleburg, Maryland. It being very late when I got up to them, I turned my horse into a little stable, or barn, belonging to the house at which the boys had quartered themselves. Headquarters usually selected a good, hospitable-looking house for their temporary quarters, you know.

Thoroughly tired out with my hard day's ride in the sun, while hunting Buford all over that part of the country, I lay down in the haymow of the stable, and was soon sound asleep, and wholly oblivious to all surroundings. I think that I must have had two sleeps that night, instead of one long one. Probably it was on account of my secluded position that I was not awakened until late the following morning, and then it was by Buford's first guns at Gettysburg. Rubbing my eyes open, I saw, with astonishment, that the bright sun was peeping through the cracks of the old barn.

The sound of each distant gun served to hasten my hay-loft toilet, and sliding down out of the haymow as quickly as a fireman gets down his pole, I had the saddle on the horse and was ready to travel, in either direction, in as short a time as the fire-engines get their rigs ready when an alarm is sounded. In my hurry I did not take time to count out an exact dozen of eggs from a nest in the manger, from which my sudden appearance had scared the old hen. She expressed her surprise and indignation in a great deal of noise, but I took no notice of her protests, and slipped, with a dexterity that only a cavalryman of the Army of the Potomac had acquired, the whole lot into my haversack, nest-egg and all, and hastily threw it over my shoulder.

Getting outside, I was further surprised to discover that the place had seemingly been abandoned in the night, not only by headquarters, but by the occupants of the house. There was not a soul to be seen, and without being exactly sure whether I was within the enemy's lines or our own, I mounted and hastily spurred on toward the sound of the guns, that was becoming more frequent.

I only knew that I was on Pennsylvania soil, my native State, and within a day's ride from my birthplace, and hoped that I should find myself among friends. There was certainly enemies where the firing was going on. I had not gone far until I met a farmer's wagon loaded, apparently, with every member of his family, and, no doubt, all their worldly goods that they could pile into it.

When I stopped them to ask about the racket down the road, all of them began to talk at once, in broken Pennsylvania Dutch, about "the war down below town." I learned further from some scared natives and some stragglers in blue, that were scurrying along the road, and were becoming thicker the nearer I got, as they put it, "The Rebels are fighting with our men on the other side of town."

That was enough for me. I was young and active, and, as a Pennsylvania boy, I was most anxious to participate in some way in fights that were to take place in my own State. I made that old horse dash along the road to the battlefield of Gettysburg, for about four miles that morning, in a way that would have put to shame General Sheridan's ride down the Valley. If my celebrated ride could have been done up in poetry and set to music, it would, as a parody on Sheridan's ride, go down into the literature of the century after the style of John Gilpin's famous ride at the sound of artillery. I'd give the old nag the spurs and make him jump ahead as if the cannon-balls were after instead of ahead of us.

That beautiful morning of July 1st, as I rode along that old pike, the one fear uppermost in my mind was that the battle of Gettysburg would be all over before I could get there. I felt that I should never be able to meet my Pennsylvania friends again if it should unfortunately happen that Buford would drive the Rebels out of the State without my assistance. That's what made me in such a hurry.

I was delayed a little on the road by an accident. I had noticed, while tearing along, that there was an awful bad air in that part of the country, but I had, as a soldier, become accustomed to bad smells hovering about an army in Virginia, that I didn't take much account of it—rather satisfying myself with the reflection that the smell simply indicated the presence of the Rebel Army in the neighborhood. But it became so oppressive that I checked up my Mad-Anthony-Wayne gait long enough to look around me. It was the eggs in my haversack. In my excitement, I had forgotten all about them, and, of course, every time my horse galloped the haversack, being strung loose to my saddle, tried to keep time, but couldn't always do it, with the result of beating the eggs up into a soft mess, and mixing shell-dry coffee, hard tack and cold meat into a fancy omelette.

When I discovered the horrible condition of things, the eggs were dripping down my horse's flanks, and when the horse stood still the odor wafted itself around me. I got one good whiff and then cut the thing loose, boldly sacrificing my expected breakfast of eggs and also all the good coffee and other nice things my kit was packed with. I have always believed that there must have been more than one bad egg in the dozen. In writing up this ride in poetry, after Buchanan's Sheridan, this incident should not be made too prominent. I record it simply as one of the necessary ingredients of a true story.

I had a double incentive after this to hurry me along; the awful stench clung to the flanks of my horse and I tried to ride him out of the range of it. When I reached the top of the hill, now so widely known as Cemetery Ridge, on the morning of July 1st, it was as quiet and restful as the old graveyard probably is this July 1st, 1889. Beyond the town, to the west, which was visible from this point, were to be seen in the air over the tops of the trees the too-familiar little curls or puffs of white, steamy-looking smoke, that I knew were from exploding shells. For the moment there seemed to be a lull in the proceedings—only an occasional gun and the more frequent sharp, hammer-like sound of infantry firing on a skirmish line.

But I'm not going to attempt a description of the battle of Gettysburg; that has already been done too thoroughly and well. I'll tell only what I saw that day, in as few words as I can put it.

When I rode through the town the people were gathered in groups in the street; ladies were at the windows talking in a whining, half-crying way to other nervous neighbors, who were, perhaps, at an up-stairs window, praying at intervals, or asking in a beseeching way, "What is to become of us all?" During all this time the soldiers inside of the town, in a sullen, quiet, business way, peculiar to old coffee-coolers, were moving about, indifferently, amidst the excitement that must have struck the inhabitants as being very unconcerned for soldiers.

I remembered one fellow in blue loitering where I had halted for a drink, while the lady of the house was kindly dishing out glasses of water. She appealed to him for something encouraging or hopeful. He looked up at her, and then, turning around in the direction of the occasional musketry, as if he had just discovered that there was something going on, assured her in an easy-going way: "Oh, that's all right; that's only a little squabble. Our army isn't out there."

I forged ahead straight out of the Chambersburg Road, galloped my horse up the hill and on past the Seminary, and might have gone a little too far on that line if I hadn't been summarily stopped by an officer, who was standing close behind the fence beside the road.

"Where in —— are you going?" was the polite salutation.

When I explained that I was a Staff orderly from headquarters hunting General Buford, he observed: "Well, you go out that road any further and you will find some Rebel General."

Another officer, more polite and obliging, kindly volunteered the information, "Buford's cavalry were in those woods this morning," pointing to a grove to the left.

It was further explained that the fence was down a little distance up the road. I made a break for the gap, and got safely out of the now-deserted highway, and ran in behind the big stone barn and dismounted, when I discovered that I was right at the front of our lines. Before me, stretched along the ground at full length, was a brigade of infantry, extending to the grove on the left. This was the advance of our line of battle, under Doubleday. I wanted very much to get into that grove, to communicate with headquarters, but I had run myself, precipitately, into a trap, and couldn't get out without the risk of being shot.

It was safe enough, for the time being, while behind the old stone barn, but there was that awful gap of a quarter of a mile between it and the grove. I dismounted, went inside of the barn, and there witnessed such a scene as can best be described by a reference to a first visit to an insane asylum. It seemed to me that from every corner, crevice and stall of the dark old basement of the barn I saw glaring at me the wild eyes of maniacs. In a word, the barn was full of skulkers—of cowards, who no doubt looked upon me as the leader of a detail to drive them out into their ranks in the front.

I was worse frightened by those fellows than by the line of battle of the Rebels in the front, and, hurrying out of the place, got on my horse and hauled down my cap, felt for the security of my belt, and was making ready for a dash over the Gap, when my attention was attracted by some officer's loud voice, who, in a whining, half-crying tone, was haranguing his men, who were lying down in his front. I shall never forget the expression on the faces of those poor fellows as they would look up at their officer and glance longingly to the rear, and alternately gaze with a frightened, serious look toward the Rebel lines, their pale, blanched faces looking the whiter through the dirt and smoke of battle, that was on them like a war-paint.

In this connection I have a conundrum for the Chaplain: How is the indisputable fact to be accounted for, or reconciled, that the same men in line of battle, facing death, will, in one and the same moment, be praying and cursing, as I heard them in this line—"God have mercy on us," and after the first volley, or when a charge was ordered, the prayer, almost in the same breath, turned to the most terrible oaths—"God damn your souls."

I went up to the Colonel and reported the discovery of the men in the barn. To my surprise, he only said: "Oh, that's nothing; let them alone."

I have looked carefully into all the accounts of the different battles for some mention of the cowards and skulkers, but, somehow, this part of the battle is not brought to the attention of the reading public nowadays, though it is not denied that these form quite a large percentage in each army.

It was imperative that I should obey orders and report to General Buford.

I had found him all right, but there remained between us the little space that I must cross. I screwed up my courage to the sticking point, and, with my head bent low, I made the run safely into the grove, where I found General Buford sitting quietly on his horse, accompanied by one or two of his Staff. He did not seem to have a happy or satisfied look, and I judged at once, from his uneasy manner, that something was going wrong. I soon found out. General Reynolds was lying by the two little elms along side of the fence, dying or dead. This was what put so serious and sorrowful an expression on the faces of all the officers just then. A Rebel sharpshooter from that stone barn had killed the best General the Army of the Potomac contained—he whom we all knew at headquarters should have been its Commander-in-Chief.

Every moment we staid in the grove was a holy terror to me; it seemed as if the whole Rebel artillery had discovered that it was headquarters, and were concentrating their shells into it. They would go crashing through the tree-tops, shrieking and tearing through the branches of the trees as we used to throw clubs into apple trees to knock down the fruit. General Buford, noticing my uneasiness as I'd glance up through the trees, as if expecting to see the apples fall, quietly observed to me: "They have not got the range yet." He said this in a tone indicating that he was only waiting till they did get it, before he should leave.

My horse became awfully nervous, to say nothing of myself, and I didn't feel that I wanted the Rebel artillery to hunt their range with me for a target.

I became suddenly solicitous about the expediency of looking after some signal and telegraph business in the town, a mile or so to the rear, and safely "beyond range."

So, riding up to the General, saluting in the Regular Army style, bowing my head low as a shell went over, I meekly suggested going back to town to see if there were any telegraph operators to be found.

"All right," said the General, significantly, "We will all be back there soon."

Turning my horse's head to the rear, I didn't hesitate so long about starting as I had for the barn, but boldly made a dash to the rear over a lot of old fields that lay between the grove and the Seminary.

I thought it about a mile distant at that time, and I have since visited the ground and was surprised to find it so short a distance; but I covered it so quickly then that some allowance may be made for the miscalculation.

I don't believe any horse-race jockey ever got over the same amount of the earth any quicker than I did that last quarter on the home stretch—I had got "in range," and was in a hurry to get out.

This was a piece of open ground, where it seemed all the shells that passed through the trees in the grove stopped and ploughed into the earth, and scattered the dirt or exploded in the air and scattered the pieces of iron.

I felt for the minute and a half that I was out from under the imaginary protection of the trees, that the whole Rebel Army were after me. Really I was so badly rattled that I did not know whether I was on a horse or afoot. Once behind the big brick Seminary Building, I felt it safe enough to dismount, cool off myself and the horse, and repair damages.

Discovering that both the horse and myself were unharmed, and being anxious to see how the rest of them out that way were getting along, I availed myself of my privilege as a signal man on the Staff, and climbed the stairs to the top of the building, getting out on the cupola.

There were several Generals up there. They were somewhat excited, and talking together in an earnest manner about something that was going on in another part of the field.

They left the cupola as if they were in a hurry. So did I, without stopping to examine the outlook very closely. There was plenty to be seen—it was quite a moving panorama of blue and gray, and far more realistic from that platform than the cyclorama I have viewed from similar elevations in the center of the battle scenes they depict.

I noticed from the cupola that there was some excitement or stir to the right of the town. I had not thought of there being any Rebels, except those I had seen immediately in our front. As I had seen enough of this part of the field, I concluded to go over to the right and see what I could do to save the day there.

I went down the steps, three or four at a jump, and was on my horse before any of the Generals, who had preceded me.

I rode out toward the right as far as it was expedient for a horse to go.

In 1863 there was a railroad embankment, or fill, along that edge of the town. Behind this I dismounted and fastened my horse to a fence, discreetly advanced as dismounted cavalry to reconnoiter, and, if possible, learn what all the fuss over here was about. I soon found out—one good look was enough. There was another barn out that road, and from behind it, or from all corners, puffs of white smoke were to be seen at frequent intervals. Beyond this there were other lines of this same white smoke; and, before I knew exactly what was going on, there came suddenly from another direction that awful sharp din of volleys of musketry. Dear me, how sharp and how sudden the noise of musketry—it rings to-day in my ear, after a lapse of twenty-five years, as distinctly as it were but yesterday. I frequently visit Gettysburg—the place has a strange fascination for me. As I walk alone over the very ground I am trying to tell about here, I recall every incident, and wonder, and wonder, in the strange quiet of the old town, where all the 200,000 are to-day!

"No marshalling troops, no bivouac song,
No banner to gleam and wave;
But, Oh these battles! they last so long—
From boyhood to the grave."

After this outbreak, which we all knew preceded a charge, there came the usual confusion, accompanied by the yells and indescribable ugly sounds, the echo of which seems to chill one's blood, even now.

In this confusion and rush, I nearly lost my horse; he had torn loose from his fastenings, in the jam and tear of artillery, breaking to the rear along the road; he was retreating in disorder among the boys of the Eleventh Corps. When I caught up with him and mounted again, there was a crowd of infantrymen jamming along the road. It is a fact that a "doboy," as we cavalrymen called the infantry, instinctively hates a cavalryman of his own army as much as he does that of the enemy, so that, in my isolated predicament, in trying to navigate my horse along a road filled with excited Germans, with bayonets on their guns, I had, literally, a hard road to travel.

I intended to go back to the Seminary, which I had recently left, thinking it the best place to get a good view of the field. I was steering my horse in that direction, down the main street of the town, when I discovered that, seemingly, everybody was coming away from there.

It looked as if the show was over and the crowd was rushing along the streets, as if anxious to catch the first car, or the last train.

I did not realize that it was a retreat until I saw riding up the road, in a direction away from the Seminary, a cavalcade, which I knew to be a General and Staff.

It was General Doubleday. The handsome General, erect and dignified at the head of his Staff, was riding alone with a bearing very much as I have witnessed other Generals on the fancy parades at the head of the column of play soldiers.

Except for an angry flush on his face, and evidently in a bad humor about something that had gone wrong, he was as cool as I have seen him since on ordinary occasions.

On looking through the dusty and crowded streets that dreadful afternoon toward the Seminary, which I had so recently left some distance inside of our lines, I was astonished beyond measure to see that a battery was right in the middle of the road firing like all nation toward us. It has always remained one of the great surprises of my life to understand how that Rebel battery could possibly have gotten through our army so suddenly and have been firing shells down the road into our retreating column from our hill, when I thought, according to the tactics, it ought to have been two or three miles out of the road on their own hill. The frequent shots did not hasten General Doubleday's pace a particle; he kept on giving his orders in a sullen, ill-natured tone, but walked his horse as slowly as if heading a funeral procession.

My young heart was distressed to see that our men were beginning to pour into the main street from every direction—all were eagerly making for the main road through town to Cemetery Hill.

It was very much as if a church, or theatre, had been dismissed in a panic; the people who were in the side aisles were rushing down on the crowds in the main entrance, so that everything became blocked by the confusion worse confounded.

The ladies of the town, from almost every house and window, were imploring the men to give them some explanation of the movement, the very suddenness and excitement of which bordered on a panic.

As a Pennsylvania boy, I felt that it was disgraceful to abandon one of our own towns to Rebel invaders, and with such thoughts burning within me, and fired by the excitement of the hour, remembering that in my ride into the town that morning I had passed Slocum's (Twelfth) Corps only a little way out, I rode up, facing the stately Doubleday, and, after saluting, said:

"General, I passed General Slocum only a little way out the road." The General, without halting his slow movement, gruffly said:

"Where is Slocum?"

"Why, out the road a little piece."

"When did you see him?"

"This morning."

Just then a shell went over the top of a house, exploded on the roof, making a most infernal noise, which scared all the horses, and in the mix-up, as I was facing the General, my horse could not march backwards, I became tangled up with him, and impeded for a moment his progress. Turning to me, with a savage expression, he said:

"Get out of my way, —— you. We all know where Slocum was this morning. Where is Slocum now? Who in —— are you, anyhow?"

I didn't insist on continuing the conversation with General Doubleday at the time; but I have had the pleasure of hearing from this grand old man, since the publication of this day's experience.

When I saw so indisputably that everybody else was going to leave town, I concluded that I might as well go too, and I stood not on the order of my going, but went at once.

On the occasion of President Cleveland's visit to Gettysburg, it was my pleasure, as well as my business as a newspaper man, to accompany that party. I heard then one of the old residents—one of the "reliable old liars"—tell a distinguished party that the Rebel band played "Dixie" on the square of the town at 1 P. M. on that day.

I want to say that is not true. There was lots of music at 1 P. M., but there were no bands playing that day that I ever heard of. It was late in the afternoon when we had our parade through the streets of Gettysburg to the music of booming cannon, screeching shell, and the sharp notes of musketry.

This music was in the air all around us, accompanied by the groans and cries of the wounded and dying men, who were being piled into the court house and churches of the old burg.

I managed to crowd my frenzied horse through the dense mass of soldiers, wagons, etc., who were surging up the main street toward Cemetery Hill.

I got there just as soon as I could, too.

On reaching the brow of the hill, I was gratified and surprised to see General Howard sitting on his horse, quite alone, in the lot to the right of the cemetery gate, or across the road from it.

All of this time, the men of the Eleventh Corps, which, in the retreat led the way, had been coming steadily up the hill from town and kept on going down over the hill on the other side, like so many sheep that follow a leader blindly over a fence.

It never occurred to me that there would be any halt then, and I assert here, bluntly, my opinion, as being unprejudiced and based solely on the events as they actually occurred to me at that day, that General Howard had not, at that hour, any other expectation than to retreat further back. He certainly had not made any effort whatever to stop the rushing to the rear of his men of the Eleventh Corps. They not only swarmed up the one road, but came straggling through the by-ways and fields, skipping over the stone fence, and, unmolested, kept going on farther back, as if it were a matter of course.

I stopped on the side of the road, near General Howard that I might look around from this elevation.

To my consternation, I discovered, from the musketry and confusion, that the Rebels were going it lively over toward our extreme right, in the direction of what is now known as Culp's Hill.

I was satisfied that the Rebels would get around to the road I had come down on, and capture the entire force then at Gettysburg.

For obvious reasons, I did not intend to be made prisoner, if my horse's legs could keep me out of the grip of the encircling Rebs.

While I was making my way back to the road I ran against General Hancock, who had just come up in search of Howard. Hancock—brilliant, dashing, glorious Hancock—rode across the way to Howard, who had been standing silently biting his finger-nails, evidently as much rattled as it was possible for a good soldier to be.

"Howard," said Hancock, in a voice and with an emphasis that attracted the attention of the crowd that had gathered there, "let's get them behind that stone fence; they can never get us out of that."

Howard looked surprised, and said something in a low voice, trembling with excitement, which I took to be an acquiescence with Hancock's suggestion. There were some other words between them that were not heard, but we all knew that Hancock, from his fiery, almost blustering manner, was urging Howard to the importance of this step. Hancock's very presence seemed to inspire the men, who had now begun to gather on the hill in great crowds, attracted by the excitable manner of the General.

Just then Doubleday reached this point. Hancock, upon seeing this fighting General, abruptly leaving Howard, turned to Doubleday and began to explain with excited gestures the importance of securing this position. Doubleday, at a glance, seemed to take in the importance of this step. He and Hancock talked together for a moment only, when Hancock, without again referring to Howard (who still sat silently in his saddle, looking over toward Culp's Hill, his back now turned to the crowd), said to Doubleday:

"Now, you put your men behind that fence, and don't let another man go back of it." Then, turning to the Staff of assembled officers that were there, he said: "Don't allow another —— man to go over that hill; drive them all up behind that stone wall."

Some one asked if they—the Staff—should use force indiscriminately. Doubleday retorted, violently: "Yes; shoot any —— man that refuses to obey."

Some officer whom I can not locate turned to all of us, took command, and ordered every officer and soldier to draw his pistol and saber and prevent another man from going down the hill. For the first and only time during the four years of the war I used a saber on our own men of the Eleventh Corps. No more men went back, thanks to Hancock. Howard and Hancock, standing together, were having some further animated conversation. I was close enough to hear only these words, spoken petulantly by Howard in answer to something that had been said to him: "Hancock, you cannot command here to-day."

Hancock rode over to Doubleday; they exchanged a few words in private, heated talk; Doubleday took charge, and it was he who executed Hancock's commands and saved the position. Howard received the credit and the thanks of Congress for having selected this position, but I assert here, as if it were a dying statement and my hopes of eternity hung on it, that Howard did not, until Hancock forced him to act, take any steps to hold the place.

Hancock's arrival upon the field, in obedience to General Meade's command, turned defeat into victory. His imposing presence, together with the admirable disposition of the First and Eleventh Corps and Buford's Cavalry, created in General Lee's mind the impression that we had been reinforced. In proof of this fact I will refer to the official reports of General Lee, lately published, in which he states that he had "restrained pursuit" because of the belief that we had been reinforced.

Much has been written upon the subject of this battle of Gettysburg, but this point has been little touched upon by any writer who is a wholly disinterested witness. My testimony is not of a regimental kind, for I am simply trying to tell of my own personal observation and experience. As a Headquarters-Staff man, I went everywhere I considered it safe to go. I only knew such regiments as contained Pennsylvania friends, and especially those of the Pennsylvania Reserves, while I knew certain other commands in the Second and Fifth Corps. I generally knew where to find them when we were in camp, but would only meet them on the march accidentally.

There was one little incident that occurred, however, in the presence of Hancock, Howard, Doubleday, and the crowd which had gathered around them on Cemetery Hill, that some of the survivors who may read this article will remember, and may thereby establish the identity of the men or regiments which were "going up the hill and down again." After it had been decided by Hancock and Doubleday to try and stop the rout of the Eleventh Corps, Howard "caught on," as we say nowadays, but only awakened to the importance of holding the place after Hancock had bulldozed him into it. One big, tall fellow, with side-whiskers (I give his description because I do not know his name or regiment), who was carrying the regimental colors, rolled up, stalked over to where Howard was spurring his horse around at a lively waltz, issuing his orders to everybody who would carry into effect Hancock's suggestions.

This Color-Sergeant, in a wild and dramatic way, stood beside Howard's frisky horse and made his little speech, which was listened to with more apparent deference than had been accorded to Hancock. I am not conscious of having any personal feeling or prejudice against General Howard—in fact, I am politically the other way—but think, as a chronicler of events, that I can be perfectly fair now in my estimation of men and events which occurred twenty-five years ago. This Color-Sergeant and Howard had a little scene up on the hill to which almost everybody else was oblivious, having as much as they could attend to at the time themselves. But I heard the Sergeant say, in quite a loud voice: "I'll take the flag down there," pointing to the stone wall just below, "if these men will stand by me." Howard replied in a low voice, tremulous with excitement, at which the color-bearer and a few men started down toward the stone wall, which was the last I ever saw or heard of them, although I have little doubt, if this man lived through the battle, he was favorably mentioned in Howard's report, and got his commission, as it was a brave act on the part of the color-bearer; but I can't help but think it would have looked better (to my eyes at least) if he had stopped with his colors at the wall on his way up, and not have made his little speech for apparent effect.

Perhaps some person will ask why Generals Hancock and Doubleday did not lay claim to the credit of this manœuver at the time. Probably they did, but of this I know nothing. Howard was Hancock's senior, and, as such, was entitled to the command during Meade's absence. But through some hocuspocus Howard received the vote of thanks by Congress for doing that which he did not do, and so the matter stands to-day.

Hancock was a noble-looking soldier. There was something in his appearance during a fight, while on his large horse, that was wonderfully impressive. Sheridan's ride up the Valley, in which his presence is credited with turning a disastrous defeat into a victory, was no more important in its results, in my estimation, than Hancock's dashing and well-timed arrival on Cemetery Hill on the afternoon of the first day of Gettysburg. There can be little doubt but that his prompt action secured the position, and his very presence, while talking with Howard, served to check the fugitives who were passing over the hill in droves.

It may also be asked why I bring this subject up at this late date, and after Hancock's death? For years I have avoided all talk on the subject of army experience. I would have sooner asked Hancock to take a drink in a public-bar-room than to have broached this matter to him. He was not the sort of a man who invited everybody's opinion. He always impressed me, and I was near him often, with the feeling that he was the ideal Regular soldier, and could only be approached through official channels. It was probably to this disposition, to leave everything to official reports, that can be attributed the fact that he did not always obtain through the newspapers the credit to which he was clearly entitled.

I therefore contend that Hancock is the hero of Gettysburg, not only of the third, but of the first day; and had he been in supreme command, and remained unharmed, General Lee would not have gotten away so easily; the war might have ended a year sooner than it did, and more than likely Gettysburg would have been in history what Appomattox now is, while Grant would have equally divided honors with Hancock. I sometimes think that, like a great many other good Generals in the East, Hancock became soured by the promotion of Grant's Western men to the best position in the Army of the Potomac.

Grand old Army of the Potomac! Noble, patient, long-suffering Army of the Potomac. Its greatest battles were fought while Meade and Hancock were subordinates—before Grant came out of the West to lead it to the Wilderness and Cold Harbor.

Everybody on Cemetery Hill did their utmost to check the shattered column, which had been doubled back from the right and the officers and men thrown into confusion; and the few men of the Staff had a hard time to rally these demoralized soldiers, for, as is well known to everybody who has had any connection with the army, a body of men once broken are about as hard to control as is a resistless mountain torrent.

I became so much engaged in this work, personally, that for a while I neglected to look around to see what was happening elsewhere. The men had come up from the town, and all stopped on the hill behind the wall, their guns cocked and lying across the top.

I was seated on my horse by the side of the big arched fancy gate of the old Cemetery, and, before I suspected that the Rebels were near, a minie-ball struck the brick-work of the gate, which I found, upon examination, was but a few feet above my head.

I had turned briskly around in search of some of my recent companions, to tell them that evidently the Rebel sharpshooters had secured places on the roofs, when I was almost paralyzed to discover that they had disappeared—scarcely anybody to be seen, save a lot of infantry, who were hugging the ground all around. Not being under the orders of any particular officer, I was, of course, like "nobody's child," and had to look out for myself. I hurriedly got behind the hill, when, to my consternation, I heard the rapid, sharp, hammer-like firing over on Culp's Hill, which seemed to me to be directly in our rear. It is a geometrical fact that the Rebels were almost in the rear of our position on Cemetery Hill. A glance at a map will explain this. Cemetery Hill projects like the point or promontory of a peninsula out into the sea of the Rebel Army, which was apparently on three sides of it.

The first thing I did was to look around for Hancock, thinking, if he was somewhere about, I would attach myself to him, as a means to get me out safely. But he was nowhere in sight; neither was Doubleday, Howard or any of the big guns I had just left on the hill; and, glancing down the Baltimore road to the rear, I saw such signs of general commotion that it gave me the impression that we were going to be surrounded.

I thought then that Hancock had made an awful big mistake in allowing the men up there to be caught in the rear while lying behind the stone wall looking in the opposite direction. I was not the only one who entertained this opinion at that juncture, by a large majority. But future events proved that Hancock was right and we were all wrong.

I went back over the same old road, along which I had dashed so gallantly in the morning, and did not stop until safely established near General Pleasonton, and so far to the rear that the sound of guns did not disturb my rest that night.

One day of Gettysburg should be enough. It was for me. The battle has been fought over so often in the newspapers that there is scarcely anything new to be said. Of course, my experience was peculiar in this—that I went as I pleased. Regimental history relates only to the observations from one fixed point.

The evening of the first day it looked badly enough to me, and if I had been Commander-in-Chief, I think I should have changed the base to a point a little farther away from the Rebels. I was defeated.

I was on hand bright and early the morning of the second day. I was not in so much of a hurry to save the day as I had been the first day. I rode down the same road I did the morning before, but I went along more cautiously. There was no booming of guns to be heard. Though nearly two hundred thousand men had been gathered there in the night, the surroundings the second morning were decidedly peaceful—unusually quiet—ominously as compared with the first morning and the evening of the first day.

I had slept in the same haymow from which I had been awakened the previous morning.

I came down the road straight toward Cemetery Hill to find headquarters—at least, that is what I started out to reach. I was stopped before I got up the hill, by an order from somebody to "Get out of the road." I got off as directed, and went into a little grove to the left, and almost in the rear of the Cemetery, where I had seen a group of officers on horseback. I do not remember who they were, but, seeing that they did not know any more than I about the "prospect," which was just then the important question, I tied my horse to a tree, that I might reconnoiter on foot, and find out something for myself. I proceeded to climb up the crest of the hill on my hands and knees, with all the humility, respect and caution that I felt was due to the Rebels. I wanted to see them all once more very much, indeed, but I did not care to have any of their sharpshooters discover me first. There were batteries upon batteries, the horses of which were down on the hill to the rear, in care of their riders. The artillerymen were, of course, around their guns, but most of them were hunting places not too much exposed. I did not see the line at first; you know the artillery is always behind, or to the rear of a line of battle, supported by infantry. Bound to see the shape of our advance of that line of battle, I went as far out as the very crest of the hill nearest the Cemetery gate. When I got that far I was paralyzed by another yell, from some unseen quarter, to "Get down, there!" I got down, and in that abject position heard the voice explain, in not very gentle tones, "The sharpshooters are on the tops of those houses." The houses referred to were so close that I could almost count the bricks in the chimney-tops.

There was another curious fellow—an officer—some distance ahead of me, standing behind a tree, looking for all the world as if he was having lots of fun playing hide-and-seek with someone. I concluded to play, too, and crawled up to the base of another tree close beside him. When I got behind the tree, I felt perfectly safe from an attack of the whole Rebel army. I was feeling so secure in this position that I became bold enough to stand to one side, that I might get a good view of our fellows. I saw them lying down or silently moving about behind that old stone wall.

A CLOSE CALL AT GETTYSBURG.

While I was yet intently gazing over the valley in hopes of seeing the Rebels, there was a little "ping" noise near me, a sharp sting on my face, as if some one had thrown a handful of gravel at me. It was only some of the bark of the tree, which had been dusted into my face by a minie-ball.

I got behind the tree. I stayed there, too, standing up against it as stiff as a post, and hugging it as close as its own bark. I was afraid to turn my head either to the left or to the right. I had seen enough, and slid down to the ground and crawled back on all-fours, after the manner of the harlequin on the stage. I found the headquarters, which was located not very far from that spot, but out of reach of any hiding sharpshooters on the house-tops at the upper end of the town.

During all that morning I was about headquarters, trying to find out what in thunder was up; everything was oppressively quiet.

In the early afternoon I sent a note addressed to General Meade into the dingy little old shanty where he had his headquarters. They were having a prolonged caucus. I proposed to send a detail of men to try to open up telegraph communication with Baltimore and Washington. I had discovered that the wires were down at some point on the railroad, and wanted to rebuild the line. In reply to this suggestion, which may be on file some place, as it was a written communication, General Meade sent me out to see General Gregg. This officer, who is a native of Pennsylvania, and at present is residing at Reading, greeted me most courteously, saying: "General Meade directs me to say to you, sir, that he appreciates the importance of securing the telegraph service, and desires you to be prepared to act upon it."

I was at the headquarters later on, when all the Generals who had been attending the Council of War came filing out, with their swords rattling, their faces wearing a determined, if not anxious, expression.

Each of the officers, without uttering a word, but acting as if he had an important business engagement on hand and was behind time at the appointment, quickly mounted their horses, all darting off in different directions.

I took the liberty of propounding a question to General Gregg. I should consider it impertinent, at my present age, for any one to ask me such a question.

But these were war times, which is the apology I now tender to General Gregg publicly. He will get a copy of this book with the author's compliments.

I asked the General, bluntly, if there "was anything up." He answered by significantly pointing over his shoulder to General Meade, who was at the moment in big boots, strutting off to his horse, which an orderly held near the assembled Staff.

"It looks as if something was up, don't it?"

I thought it did;—and as everybody else was mounting their horses I followed the example; that is, I followed General Meade, who was my example, over toward what was then the front of the Round Tops or Sickles' salient.

I can not go into Sickles' fight at Gettysburg. I know nothing more about it than has been published, except the impression that I gathered at the headquarters, and throughout the army at the time, in the days that immediately followed, which in effect was, that General Sickles had played a big card in hopes of accomplishing something on his own account that would give him the command of the Army of the Potomac. As all know, it was a continual fight between our Generals as to who should be the Chief. Sickles lost his opportunity and his leg at the same time. It was the common talk then, and few cared to dispute it some years ago, when Meade and Hancock were yet alive, that, if Sickles had not lost his leg, he would have lost his commission.

I was at Gettysburg with General Sickles in July, 1886 and 1888, and interviewed him for the press on this subject. He showed considerable feeling over the hostile attitude of other distinguished officers toward his absurd claim of having won the battle of Gettysburg, by being defeated the second day.

At the time, it looked to me like another first day, and, as I was anxious to be on the safe side, I retired to the valley between the Round Tops.

While riding out toward the rear, from between the Round Tops, I met a double line of battle slowly advancing. It was so long a line that I could not see either end of it through the undergrowth. In endeavoring to find a break, or hole, to get through, I asked some of the officers what troops these were, and my recollection is they were the Pennsylvania Reserves. I have often wondered since why some mention is not made of this reserve being on hand there to receive Longstreet if he had come through Sickles.

The appalling fear before me, as I faced those fellows advancing, with their guns loaded and bayonets fixed, pointing at my horse's breast, was that they wouldn't let me through, but might drive me ahead of them. I was not ambitious to lead them down through that valley, where so much noise was being made by Rebel yells and musketry.

I will never forget that double row of dirty faces. They had been on a forced march all day, perhaps, to reach the field. The dust of the roads had adhered to their perspiring faces, presenting a war-paint effect that was ludicrous even at so serious a time.

"How does a man feel in battle?" is a question often asked, or "Were you frightened the first time?" My answer is: "Yes, and every other time." I never heard a shell screech, or a minie-ball whistle or whiz, that I wished, with all my soul, that I had not come. I was scared when I went in the first and the last battle.

At the end of every fight I felt, somehow, as if the war was a failure, and we might as well go home, we so seldom had the satisfaction of seeing the Rebels run.

A majority of people have formed an idea that a battle is a continuous uproar, from daylight until dark, or during all of the day on which it occurs. As a matter of fact, the real fight is soon over, one way or another; that is, the actual contest of the larger bodies ends about as suddenly as a collision on a railroad.

It is a long time beginning; may be the picket-firing of the night previous is the first indication; then will come the more frequent clattering from the skirmish-line, with an occasional shot from a battery; perhaps it ends with this.

I have nearly always noticed that the officers and men thought it had ended, and were only suddenly awakened to the fact that it had not, by a tremendous boom from some battery, that would nearly always be discovered to be at some point they did not expect a hostile shot to come from.

It may not be an agreeable thing to print, but it has been my experience in battle, that it was always the unexpected that happened to our officers.

The first time I was under fire, I happened to be near a battery, and became so much excited by the booming of the guns, and the action of the men and officers, that I did not realize my danger.

A battery pounding shot into an enemy is the most inspiriting music a soldier can hear. Of course, you can not tell whether the shot hit any one or not, as they go so far, but you instinctively feel, from the big noise and fussy kick the thing makes every time it is fired, that something must get hurt at the other end.

As a rule, it is not the artillery that does the damage; the shells most frequently go entirely over the heads of a line of battle and drop far to the rear, where they stampede the mules about the wagon-trains and scare the skulkers.

The wounds are not always received at the front. It is the nasty little bullets that do the greater damage to the men in line.

On this occasion I felt, from the way this battery had been pounding into the woods, a mile or so away, that they had killed everybody over there, so I boldly advanced on my horse to the front or skirmish-line. On my way out, I saw coming toward me two fellows carrying, or rather supporting, a third between them; getting closer, I discovered that the man they were carrying had his leg off; indeed, it seemed as if his whole lower body had been torn off at the hip, leaving his bleeding flesh hanging in shreds to his light-blue pantaloons.

I naturally stopped when they got nearer, when I discovered, to my horror, that the poor man's bowels were actually trailing on the ground. He was yet alive; his eyes were fixed upon me in a sorrowful, longing way that I shall never, never get out of my mind.

While paralyzed by this sight, I was so sick that I almost fell off my horse, by seeing one of the men accidentally tread on his bowels, which served to draw more of his entrails from his torn and bleeding body. The poor fellow was then past all pain. I hurried forward to get away from the horrible sight, only to come on a boy in blue, who was lying flat on his face, as if he had been literally biting the dust, all choked up—dead.

You will notice in all the pictures of battles that the dying are usually represented as throwing up their hands and falling backward gracefully.

As a matter of fact, the men usually fall forward, unless they are struck by a missile so large that its weight will carry them backward by the momentum. I have observed that a wounded man's head drops forward; this, I presume, has a tendency to cause the body to fall forward with the weight of the head; and the fact that the dead, who die on the field, are nearly always found with their faces down, burrowed, has created the expression, "biting the dust."

As it generally rains after a battle, I have noticed the wounded and dying nearly always crawl to a pool of water, and their dead faces are often found as if they had died in an effort to wet their parched tongues.

Every person I have talked with for five minutes about Gettysburg, asks the question: "Were you there when Pickett charged?" as if that famous incident comprised the whole of the battle, whereas it was only the fire-works at the end of the three days' meeting.

When Pickett's charge was made I was behind the stone wall, about three miles away, and, consequently, did not see it.

At the "supreme moment," I was quietly picking blackberries in an old field where the reserve artillery had been parked.

When the tremendous firing began and the reserve artillery were ordered down, I stopped my blackberrying, out of season, and went down to the front to see what the fuss was all about.

Pickett's charge has been done—and over-done—so very thoroughly by both sides, that I shall not even attempt to add a word to the mass of stuff that has already been printed about it.

There is, however, a little story about a charge of Pennsylvanians in the Virginia "burg," led by the glorious but unobtrusive Meade, that the old Army of the Potomac should not themselves forget, nor allow their old-time enemies to obliterate, or snow under. I refer to the charge of Meade on the left at Fredericksburg, December 11th, 1862, where, with fewer numbers, he accomplished greater results than Pickett against greater odds:

With the Rappahannock River in the rear, Meade led his Division over a mile of plain under a heavy artillery fire, and broke the celebrated Stonewall Jackson line, and penetrated 600 yards beyond their line. If he had been sustained, the slaughter at Marye's Heights would have been avoided.

It was also at Marye's Heights, where greater heroism was shown, where not one grand attempt was made, but where charge after charge was made against an absolutely impregnable position, yet one never hears of these charges.

The gallant Allabach, the veteran of two wars, led the last final onslaught on Marye's Heights, at the head of a small brigade of Pennsylvania troops of Humphrey's Division that had never before been under fire, and this handful comparatively, went into the very jaws of death, and, though they did not reach the stone wall, they got nearest to it and kept their ground, within a few rods of it till dark, when they were ordered to fall back.

No prisoners were taken at Fredericksburg as there were at Gettysburg.

The snake, Secession, had its back-bone broken at Gettysburg to be sure, but boys of the dear old Army of the Potomac—patient, noble, long-suffering old Army of the Potomac—remember the early, the dark days, when Meade, Hancock, Reynold, Warren, Humphreys, etc., were our immediate commanders; do not forget the old Army of the Potomac and its numerous general officers when the proper praises are so freely being given to its later chiefs.

Though the final charge of Pickett, preceded and attended as it was by peculiarly dramatic surroundings, has furnished a subject for more speeches, historical essays, paintings, poems, than any other event which ever occurred in America, yet, in point of fact, history is wrong in ascribing the credit to Pickett.

The charge was not led by Pickett, neither were the troops who did the most gallant fighting Virginians.

It is reserved for these Spy papers to record, on the testimony of reliable, Confederate officers, that Pickett did not get within a mile of our lines.

The best fighting was done by the North Carolinians and Tennesseeans, led by Pettigrew; therefore, it should be Pettigrew's charge. In this, as in many other matters, the historians of the war are at fault.

May we hope that the humble efforts of the "Boys" in these pages, will, at least, call attention to some of those inaccuracies, with a view of getting at the truth.

As I have intimated, I have endeavored to collect some recent testimony from the Southern side, having spent some time on the old war-trail, which I hope to be able to put in shape soon. The time must come when the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, will be known, and then, perhaps, future generations may be taught to see that to the Pennsylvania Reserves is due some of the honor, valor, gallantry and patriotism that is now being so freely offered to the Pickett survivors.

No one will question their bravery at Gettysburg on July 3rd, 1863; but since then, and on July 4th, 1887, the survivors have left themselves open to attack, in assuming their positions in reference to monuments.

There remains among the Southern people an ignorant, deep-seated belief, which is being taught the "New South," that, if Longstreet had properly supported Pickett, they would have been successful, and the country would have become a Confederacy. There is a great deal of "if" in all the survivors' talk in the New South, so that we may indulge in the use of the little word, and propose a few conundrums—possibilities.

What would have been the result, if Meade had been supported by Franklin, when he broke Stonewall Jackson's line at Fredericksburg? And if Sedgwick had been properly supported by Hooker, at Chancellorsville, when he drove Early from behind the "impregnable" works on Marye's Heights? Once more: If Pickett had succeeded and had broken into our line, and had been supported by Longstreet, then if the Sixth Corps, which had scarcely been engaged in the great fight, had turned in on them on the flank, if any of them had gotten back at all it would have been a miracle. If, on the other hand, General Meade had taken Hancock's advice and turned the Reserves and the Sixth Corps loose after Pickett the war might have ended. If they were to try it again they would be whipped worse. If they don't believe it, fire on Fort Sumter. If we had never been born we would not have to die.

There was one little episode I have never seen recorded. After the charge of Pickett—on the third day—had failed, everything had quieted down. Meade, accompanied by his Staff, went over the wall and rode along our entire front, from Cemetery Hill to the Round Tops, receiving the cheers of the whole army, or all that was left.

That was the only time I ever heard music on a battlefield; then it was from a band in the woods at Little Round Top, that played "Hail to the Chief."

I never hear that old tune, nowadays, on these fancy parades, but it brings up the recollection of that great day and causes the cold chills to creep up and down my spine.

I rode with General Meade this day; to prove which, I will ask some of the survivors who witnessed that event to recall a smooth-faced boy on a lame horse that brought up the rear of the dashing cavalcade. My nag got hurt the first day, and I did not have a chance to steal another, and, as I was bound to be on hand, I had to ride my lame horse.

The General and Staff always go at a break-neck gallop, the Staff tearing along in the rear, like a tail to a comet, so that, in this case, I "got left" about a gunshot to the rear; and, because I so energetically spurred the lame horse, to catch up, our boys, behind the stone wall, gave me the laugh and some cheers of derision. They were all feeling pretty good just then, and were excusable.

One of the Staff-officers told me that we had captured General Longstreet, and when I got over among the Reserves I told this bit of news, where it created a sensation.

I have never seen an account of that ride along the lines in print. It is correct, though it may have been the fourth day instead of the third. You will find in the Rebel reports of the battle, that General Lee states that, on hearing these shouts and cheers from our army, he thought it meant an advance on his line, and he made preparations to meet it. I think it was the cheers for General Meade that he heard, even so distant as his headquarters.

But we will leave Gettysburg. I want to say something about Kilpatrick and the Corn Exchange Regiment of emergency men, that came out of Philadelphia at that time to repel the invasion.

It is not for me to criticise General Meade for not closely pursuing Lee's shattered army. We all know that, when a rattle-snake is chased into his hole, he don't leave his tail exposed, but at once presents his head to the entrance. I remember that some days after Gettysburg, while we were at Emmittsburg, or between there and Frederick, Maryland, General Kilpatrick and some of his associates had an animated conversation about it, which everybody in the neighborhood heard, as Kilpatrick was a free talker when he became very much interested in a subject. On this occasion he freely expressed his disgust with the slow proceedings, but no one who knew Kilpatrick well paid much attention to his bluster. He was nick-named "Kill Cavalry," because of his recklessness and apparent disregard of his own and the lives of his men.

I will relate a single incident illustrating this General's character, that occurred in my hearing at Hagerstown. At the time of the Gettysburg campaign there had been quite a lot of emergency troops called out by the Governor of Pennsylvania—"ninety-minute men" we called them. On our march from Gettysburg we met with these home-guards at different points. I remember that just outside of the town of Frederick, Maryland, there was a regiment of these men doing guard duty. As we marched by, and these citizen-soldiers, who were fresh in their picturesque, zoo-zoo uniforms, or, as they are sometimes called, "Night-drawers Cadets," the dirty-looking, old, blue-bloused veterans chaffed them most unmercifully. It was wet weather, and the roads were muddy, as is always the case after a battle. Wherever these ninety-minute men were stationed on guard duty, they were to be found perched as sentries on top of a pile of cracker-boxes or fence rails, to keep their feet out of the mud, the boxes giving them the appearance of a statue on a pedestal.

"Pretty boys," "Nice little sogers," "Don't get your feet wet, sonny; you might take cold," "Let me kiss him for his sister," are mild specimens of the expressions hurled at them from the marching columns of old vets.

My recollection is that these were Philadelphia troops. When we reached Hagerstown, we ran into a lot more of them, that had come down the Cumberland Valley from Harrisburg and Chambersburg to head Lee off. One of these organizations was, I think, called the Corn Exchange Regiment, recruited, or at least fathered, and sent into the field by the wealthy gentlemen of the Philadelphia Exchange. They were composed of what may be termed the better class of men; at least, that was their own estimate of themselves. At their Philadelphia home they probably ranked as rather an exclusive set of boys. Their officers were decidedly "fresh," to use a slang term; at least, we around headquarters, who had become accustomed to pay some attention to military etiquette, were disgusted to see these line officers crowd around our Generals, to stare at and talk as familiarly as if they were all corps commanders.

Custer and Kilpatrick, with whom I was then serving, were at first immensely amused at the efforts of the militia officers to make themselves agreeable. The officers and men, too, felt, no doubt, that it was their only opportunity to see a live General, like Kilpatrick and Custer, and were bound to gratify their curiosity while they had a chance.

In addition to their curiosity, these chaps were continually imploring General Kilpatrick to let them have "just one chance at the Rebels." They begged that they might be permitted to have an opportunity to distinguish themselves before they returned to Philadelphia.

One evening Kilpatrick told Custer, in my hearing, to put some of these men out on the picket-line, which was really a most dangerous place, for they were in close proximity to the rear-guard of Lee's army. The rear of an army cornered, as was Lee's at that time, is an ugly place to put a recruit, and General Kilpatrick knew very well that, in yielding to their foolish requests, he was subjecting them to great danger. But General Kilpatrick concluded he would have a little fun out of the recruits, so he placed some of them on the advance line, and watched to see what they would do if attacked. We all dismounted, and were watching the lines of Rebels. The officer of the guard protested against having these new men on his line, saying they would be likely to raise a hornets' nest about our ears, but Kilpatrick told him to let them try their hands a little while. These men went up the hill a little distance, when their brilliant uniforms attracted the attention of the Johnnies, and, as they acted as though they were going to drive Lee's army across the Potomac, they let these recruits have a few shots by way of warning, which was answered by the Philadelphians, who became excited, with a broadside. The Rebel fire had injured about a dozen of the recruits, one big fellow keeling over and yelling like a boy stumping a sore toe. Instead of continuing up the hill, or even falling back, they all crowded together where the wounded lay, and began to console with them. They were finally brought away, with the loss of a few more men, and they did not bother General Kilpatrick again to be placed in the front rank of the army. But there was one thing about Kilpatrick: he never ordered a man to go where he was not willing to lead. I stood beside him the following day, near Williamsport, when a rifle-ball whizzed close by his ear. Jerking up his hand nervously, as if stung by a bee, or to brush off a mosquito, he turned to me and said: "Holy Moses! That ball came near hitting me." But he didn't move out of range of that sharpshooter—but I did.

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