Beside this, I wanted most earnestly to see General Beauregard myself, and to visit his army at Manassas, and pretended that I was glad to have the use of the old man's buggy, instead of having to trudge along on foot.
The approach to the outskirts of the Rebel army was evident from the frequent appearance of men in gray clothes, who were apparently straggling along the road bound to their homes. A great many of them seemed to have formed the conclusion that, having whipped the Yankees at Bull Run, the war was over, or, if it wasn't, it ought to be, and they could return to their homes in peace, at least until wanted again.
At certain points along the highway, such as bridges, toll-gates and cross-roads, we were halted by guards, who, like the stragglers, were quite communicative to our Colonel, and were of the general opinion that there was no longer any necessity for any particular stringency in enforcing orders, as the war would soon be over; we were, in consequence, permitted to drive ahead without delay.
My old Colonel had taken occasion at several points to call attention to his "prisoner" in a patronizing way. I was pleased and encouraged to note that the air of importance with which the old man attempted to surround himself did not evoke the laudation that he expected.
As we drove up to a house by the roadside to water the horse, I mildly suggested that I should like an opportunity to wash some of the dust and perspiration from my face and brush up a little before being presented to the General. My guardian angel, probably thinking it would serve his purpose better to show me up in as unfavorable an appearance as possible, bluntly refused to accord me this privilege, saying, as he drove off:
"I'm in a hurry to get there, as I don't want to have you on my hands all night."
We were now close to the railroad tracks, along side of which were numerous camps, or those that had been abandoned for more comfortable location out toward the front. I need not tell old soldiers how uncomfortable and desolate the rear or outskirts of an army are, especially in the miserable country about Manassas.
The roads were crowded with all sorts of vehicles, from artillery and ammunition wagons, driven by colored boys and guarded by frisky black-horse cavalrymen, to the two-wheeled carts run by decrepit old colored people who were peddling "truck" for the benefit of their Virginia-Yankee owners, whom, by the way, the real Southern people from the South said at that time were worse than any other sort of Yankee.
Of course the road was dusty—Virginia roads are either dusty or muddy, and, being so much crowded, our progress became a little slow. As we drove along through that Rebel army that evening, I am sure there was not a face in all the crowd that I did not eagerly scan, in nervous anticipation of meeting some one who might recognize me. When the old man was told we were off the road to headquarters, I felt as much annoyed as himself at the delay in reaching General Beauregard's headquarters.
I observed particularly an entire absence of anything that looked like preparations for an advance. Of this I became more satisfied the further on we got, both from the appearance of men traveling to the rear and from the careless appearance of the troops toward the front.