It was only a moment before the foremost rider was near us, and he thundered out in tones I shall never forget, “Halt!”
Our driver reined in his horses. “Turn your ambulance back as quickly as you can, you fool! You are driving right into the enemy’s camp.”
The driver whipped up his horses and retreated at a gallop, but not until the Confederate sharpshooters had begun to send their bullets flying after the men who had come to our rescue. Some of the missiles came dangerously near to the little ambulance company. The cans and bundles which had been placed upon the seats with so much care, and held with our outstretched hands, now went tumbling into a common heap on the floor, and before the race was over two of us were down on top of them. When we were at a safe distance from the enemy, the horsemen riding near us, a halt was called, and we gathered ourselves up and tried to look respectable after such a rough and tumble ride.
A captain rode round in front, and in a tone which made the cold shivers creep along the spinal column, demanded, “Who is in charge of this ambulance?”
“I am,” I answered with all the self-composure I could command at that instant.
“And so you were trying to reach the lines of the enemy with supplies and this good team and a Union soldier?”
“No, sir. I am as loyal as any man who wears shoulder-straps, and I can prove it. I was trying to reach a hospital with these supplies [naming the hospital]. The driver thought he knew the way, but it seems he did not.”
“That is not a likely story. That hospital is not in that direction at all; and I overtook you near the enemy’s camp, more than a mile beyond where we allow any one to go. Why did you run past our pickets who demanded you to halt?”
“I did not see any pickets, or hear any one call ‘Halt!’ until you came up.”
“You are all under arrest! Driver, you will drive to the headquarters of the commanding general.”