Of course, every noise made by the wind was a bushwhacker. I was so thankful to find myself alive at daybreak that I forgot to growl at the corporal for not relieving me on time. When I unbosomed myself to Taylor, and told him how nervous I felt out there by the old mill, he laughed and said:
“Don't you never feel nervous again when you're caught in such a scrape, for, mark my word, no rebel, not even a 'gorilla' would be fool enough to go gunning for Yankee recruits such a night as last night was.” I found a good deal of comfort in Taylor's logical admonition after that when alone on picket in stormy weather.
Just over the divide on Water Mountain, on the side toward the rebel camp, was an old log shanty. We called it the block house. Our pickets occupied it by day, and the rebels had possession of it by night. This happened because the Union picket line was drawn in at night, and the pickets were posted closer together than during the day. Our line was advanced soon after daylight.
One morning when we galloped down to the block house from our reserve, we surprised the Johnnies. They had been a little late in getting breakfast, and their horses had their nosebags on. We were just as much surprised as they were, and we stood six to six. Carbines and revolvers were pointed, but no one fired.
“Give us time to put on our bridles and we'll vacate,” said the sergeant of the rebel picket.
“All right; go ahead,” our sergeant replied.
The Johnnies bridled their horses, mounted and rode down the mountain.
“We kept a good fire for you all,” the rebel sergeant remarked as they left.
“And you'll find it burning when you come back tonight,” was the Yankee sergeant's assuring reply.
After the rebels had got out of sight our boys began to feel that they had missed a golden opportunity to destroy a detachment of the Confederate army. We had longed for a “face-to-face” meeting with the rebels.