I had yielded my gun to Thomas. At his saddle hung a carbine, and his holsters were not empty.
"Six paces in front of me, sir!" says Thomas.
We go on at a trot. It is now fully twelve o'clock. We are nearing the river again. We cart hear the rumbling of railroad trains, directly in front but far away.
The speed we are making is too slow. I dig my heels into my horse's sides; he breaks into a gallop. "Stop!" roars Thomas. I do not stop. I say nothing. I know he will not shoot. He threatens and storms, but keeps his distance. At length, he makes his horse bound to my side, and I feel his hand on my collar.
"Are you crazy?" he shouts.
I fear that he means what he says. I pull in my horse. Such, a suspicion may ruin my plan.
After a time we began to see camps ahead. We passed through the camps. We passed troops of all arms and wagon trains.
At last we reached headquarters. Thomas reported to an aide, giving him the note. I was admitted, still under Thomas's guard, before the general. He was surrounded by many officers and couriers and orderlies. The aide approached the general, who turned and looked at me. The general held the note in his hand.
"What is your name?" he asked."
"Jones Berwick, Jr., sir," said I.