A few minutes later, a long, quick flash of light darted along the ground, which was immediately followed by a loud, stunning report, and the murky darkness was illumined with a brilliant, flaming light, and great volumes of smoke.
Instantly the entire camp was aroused, and the half-dressed and fully-frightened soldiers came rushing to the scene, which was now only a scattered pile of burning ruins. How it occurred, no one knew, or could tell aught about it, and wild conjectures were freely indulged in as to the probable cause of the disaster. In the meantime, the only man in the world who could tell anything about the affair, was traveling as fast as his legs could carry him in the direction of the Union camp.
In a few days he made his appearance at my headquarters, and related the success of his journey. I could not refrain from laughing heartily at his peculiar and independent system of warfare, but advised him to be more careful in the future as to how he tampered with the stores of the enemy.
I was not disappointed as to the ability of the man, however, and for months he served me faithfully and well, needing but little instruction, and always performing his work to the entire satisfaction of every one. He at times adopted various disguises, but generally depended upon his own natural shrewdness, and his natural adaptiveness for the role of an itinerant peddler to carry him through successfully.
He was always fortunate in his trips, and, so far as I knew, his identity was never discovered, and in the peddler who stuttered and "sometimes had fits," the rebels never recognized an emissary of the Secret Service.
SHOT BY A CANNON-BALL.
