Clearly the way ahead was brightening. I soon ascertained that I was with friends, loyal Confederates. Then I told them who I was, and all became excitement for the next day’s adventure.
We drove down to the Federal outpost. Crenshaw—that was the name of the cotton buyer—showed his pass to the officer in command, who then turned to me. “Captain,” I said, “I have no pass, but I am a nephew of Mrs. General Dana. Can you not pass me in without a pass?” He was very polite. It was a chain picket, he said; his orders were very strict, and so on.
“Well,” I said, “suppose I were a member of your own command and were run in here by guerillas. What do you think would it be your duty to do?”
“In that case,” he answered, “I should send you to headquarters with a guard.”
“Good!” said I. “Can’t you send me to headquarters with a guard?”
He thought a moment. Then he called a cavalryman from the outpost.
“Britton,” he said, “show this gentleman in to General Dana’s headquarters.”
Crenshaw lashed his horse and away we went. “That boy thinks he is a guide, not a guard,” said he. “You are all right. We can easily get rid of him.”
This proved true. We stopped by a saloon and bought a bottle of whisky. When we reached headquarters the lad said, “Do you gentlemen want me any more?” We did not. Then we gave him the bottle of whisky and he disappeared round the corner. “Now you are safe,” said Crenshaw. “Make tracks.”
But as I turned away and out of sight I began to consider the situation. Suppose that picket on the outpost reported to the provost marshal general that he had passed a relative of Mrs. Dana? What then? Provost guard. Drumhead court-martial. Shot at daylight. It seemed best to play out the hand as I had dealt it. After all, I could make a case if I faced it out.