Dad was familiar with the surrounding region. His corps of the Army of the Potomac had marched and fought and countermarched and bivouacked and advanced and retreated across nearly every square foot of it for the past two months.
He saw from a glance at the map the location General Hooker had chosen for his new headquarters. It was nearly forty miles away, and between it and the camp behind the apple orchard lay a section of country that the Confederate victory of the preceding day would set a-swarm with graycoats.
This battle—whose grim harvest still lay ungathered along the mountain foot, ten miles distant—had driven back a portion of the Union line that was seeking to wriggle its way along the Virginia peninsula toward Richmond.
The several corps were widely scattered.
And in the interstices—notably between this spot and General Hooker’s headquarters—were masses of Confederate guerrilla-bands, Confederate skirmish companies, Confederate scout-parties, and even swift-marching Confederate regiments and brigades.
To cross the intervening space unmolested was an exploit easier for a high-flying crow to accomplish than for a human being—particularly when that human being chanced to be a blue-uniformed Yankee soldier.
The general, raising his eyes from the map on which with a pencil-butt he was tracing the route from start to destination, read in Dad’s eyes the knowledge of what the journey must mean.
“It is an expedition for a full brigade,” said the general, “or—for one resourceful man. I do not underestimate the peril of capture, nor do I formally command you to go. I merely give you a chance to volunteer for the mission if you wish to assume its responsibilities.”
Dad saluted again.
“I beg to volunteer, sir,” said he with decisive military brevity.