We had not gone far when we met the two men returning alone. To the eager questioning of the officer the foremost one replied:
"We been down to the river and he ain't thar." The second Rebel joining in, said: "That fellow's in the woods, sure—he never went to the river."
After a little consultation, in which I took part, it was decided to wait and watch till he should come out of his hole. With a view to making myself more solid with the officer, I volunteered to assist in the hunt by proposing to call loudly on my friend to come out of his hiding place and join us. The proposition was, in a courteous manner, conditionally accepted, the officer being fearful that any loud calls might be heard by the Yankee's outposts and endanger their secluded outlooks, advised that I should be moderate in my outcry. Climbing up on the fence and putting both hands to my mouth to form the trumpet boys use when hallooing to their playmates, I sang out as loudly as I could, "H-e-l-l-o-o-a, B-o-b!"
All eagerly listened for the echo in reply, but I, fearful that he might answer, continued in the next breath:
"All right," and as I forced a little choking cough, to disguise and smother the words, like the robber in Fra Diavalo, "Come on!"
All waited quietly for an answer, but only the echo "on" came back. Bob was too far off to have heard my voice, and I realized I had been left alone in the hands of the Rebels. I was a prisoner.
There is among some old letters that my sister has religiously preserved—one from a stranger, signed with Bob's correct name and address, describing in feeling terms our adventure, and my capture, bewailing my sad fate, and tendering his heartfelt sympathy, pretty much in the same form of letters from comrades in the field, which became frequent in the families of the North and South announcing the death or capture of sons and brothers, in which it is stated that, as my companion heard shots after he left me, and he supposed, of course, I had been killed. I may as well state that this letter was written by Mr. C. W. Hoffman, who is now a resident of Latrobe, Pennsylvania.
Comrade Hoffman served subsequently with distinction as a scout, being detailed as one of a party to approach Fort Sumter previous to the attack made there.
A pleasant renewal of the old war acquaintance has recently been brought about. I give herewith a recent letter from Mr. Hoffman:
Latrobe, Penn., March 29, 1887.
J. O. Kerbey.
Dear Old Friend: I often thought of you. I learned your present address from your brother at Wilmore. What are you doing? Let us hear from you. I am the fellow that run away from you on the mountains, in Virginia, in August, 1861. I went on quite a distance that day. I slept on that mountain all night. The next day I returned to the hotel at Sandy Hook. I had quite a time of it: I saw several Rebel cavalrymen, but I always made it a point to keep out of their way, as I had the blue pants and blouse on. Those fellows made their headquarters next to where you made the inquiries at the old woman's log house. It was a wonder they did not take me a prisoner, as at times I wandered out in the country very barely. Wasn't there a Rebel camp near Leesburg, or was that the name of the town near that mountain? I suppose it is about eight miles from Harper's Ferry. I could hear drums beating plainly—I was not far from the town. I had quite a time of it when I returned to Sandy Hook—I was arrested as a spy, was thrown into the guard house, but finally got out all right. I was a scout and had papers to show to that effect, but never did much at it. Hoping to hear from you.
Yours truly, C. W. Hoffman.