After supper I walked up the bank of the stream with Ferd, which was the name by which Lee was familiarly known, and we soon encountered a group of men composed of stragglers from two small parties that were camping near by and who like ourselves had gravitated toward the best camp fire.
"Was it your Captain what made that h—l of a dive from his hoss into the river?" asked a tall, black-whiskered Southerner of a small, red-headed chap, who we learned later was known as Sandy.
"I reckon it war. Didn't he do it all right?" was the reply. "What's your name, anyhow?" he continued.
"Well, it don't make much difference, but these fellows call me Shorty, and I was wondering if that Captain ever rid a hoss before."
"Guess he has, because he says he was in the army and raided in Kentucky with the Rebs," replied Sandy. "Those Kentuckyans think they can ride, you know." And with this he took a seat upon a little rock, lighted a pipe, and others followed his example.
"I guess you're a Yank," said Shorty.
"Well, I reckon I am," said Sandy, "and while we are guessing I would put you down for a Johnny Reb." A frown came over Shorty's face, when he said, with some bitterness, "You think the Kentucky boys can't ride much, hey?"
"I recollect hearing them tell about your General Winne, when he and some of his boys here were pretty close together near the Wilderness Tavern. He did the same thing in the water of Flat Run that your Captain did in Bear River."
"War you in the Wilderness two years ago?" asked Sandy.
"I was in the Iron Brigade of Maryland, sir."