Who goes there?

by B. K. Benson

I asked, "Whose picket is that?"

My voice sounded strangely tremulous.

There was no answer.

If they were Confederates, I was in their rear, and there would be no sense in their refusal to reply; some one would have said, "Come up and see!" or something. There was no movement. I could see that the black spots had become large objects; the moon was shining.

I must ask again.

I remember that at that moment I thought of our Captain--dead that day.

I spoke again, "Gentlemen, is that the picket of Ramseur's brigade?"

No answer.

Again I spoke, "Gentlemen, is that Ramseur's North Carolina brigade?"

Not a word.