He reports that two men on horseback came up from Paris; one of them stopped and called out our host. They had a long conversation in a low voice, and then the man turned and rode back on a gallop. "And the contrabands say that the old man is secesh," pursues the sergeant, "and when the rebel troops went by, he made them come out and hurrah." This is agreeable. Was the man on horseback a picket, and will there be a troop clattering down on us in a few minutes? or has he gone to raise a crowd of irresponsible countrymen, who will think it fine fun to kill us and capture our horses, and of whom Gen. Beauregard will say, he really knows nothing, they were not soldiers, and acted without authority? Is our old friend false to us?
"Sergeant, what do you think of it?"
The sergeant is a shrewd judge of character, and there is no one in the squadron whose opinion I would regard more highly on such a point as this. He comes up close to the fire, and I see his face has a very anxious expression, and he says, after a long pause: "I don't know what to think of it."
"Well, go back and pick out a place where you can see up the Paris road, and call me the instant you see any object moving. Doctor, I say, did you hear that?"
"Yes, and I don't know what to think of it" says the doctor. "Can anything be done?"
"The worst of it is, doctor, that the flag prevents our doing anything till actually attacked. We must now go in the character of guests, professing entire faith. If we were on ordinary duty, our sergeant would have stopped that man, and I should keep him here till we leave. As it is, we can neither fight nor run away—though it is hardly fair, as you are a non-combatant, to make you risk it."
"I think I will risk it if you do," says the doctor; and he turns over and goes to sleep.
I lie by the fire this time without dozing. The men are all sleeping heavily and undisturbed. The hovering dagger does not trouble them. Soon it is time to change guard. I rouse the next man, and the sergeant comes in and takes his place on the bed. I wonder if other people find a weight in responsibility. Many talked to me of the danger of the cavalry service—only one ever named this other word, which is much the heavier. The men have no responsibility, and are at rest; the sergeant, lately so anxious, has made his report, performed his duty, and has no more responsibility: he now sleeps as soundly as the others.
The man on guard will be relieved of his in an hour or two, and he will lie down and slumber too. But I hear the distant barking of dogs, and start up at the sound, for we have learnt to observe the movements of our own cavalry at night by this sign. Every house keeps half a dozen curs, and they yelp frantically when a body of horse is passing. I open the door softly and peer out. The moon sheds a dim light through the clouds, disclosing the long line of road and distant woods toward Paris. The sentinel stands motionless under a tree by the road side. "Allen, do you see anything?" "No, sir." "Did you hear that barking?" "Yes, sir." "Watch whether it sounds again at any other house, and if it is coming toward us." We listen long but hear nothing. It must have been a chance disturbance there. I lie down again, consoling myself with the thought, that I am at least warm and dry. The geese make a tremendous cackling behind the house. Rome was saved by a flock of geese, and why shouldn't we be. The sentinel is watching the road in front; it will be better if I go out and inspect the rear.