"IF YOU ARE AROUND HERE WHEN WE BEGIN THE JOB, YOU WILL FIND OUT ALL ABOUT THAT."

The Boy Spy

A SUBSTANTIALLY TRUE RECORD OF SECRET SERVICE DURING THE WAR
OF THE REBELLION. A CORRECT ACCOUNT OF EVENTS
WITNESSED BY A SOLDIER ATTACHED TO
HEADQUARTERS
THE ONLY PRACTICAL HISTORY OF WAR TELEGRAPHERS IN THE FIELD—A
FULL ACCOUNT OF THE MYSTERIES OF SIGNALING BY FLAGS,
TORCHES, AND ROCKETS—THRILLING SCENES OF
BATTLES, CAPTURES AND ESCAPES
BY

MAJOR J. O. KERBEY

CHICAGO.
M. A. DONOHUE & CO.
407-429 Dearborn St.

COPYRIGHT BY
J. O. Kerbey.
1887-88-89-90.

PREFACE.

The following unpretending narrative of some of the actual experiences of a boy in the War of the Rebellion is fraternally dedicated to my comrades of the G. A. R.

Part of these adventures were recorded in the press of the country at the time of their occurrence, and more recently, in detached and crude form, in different papers.

Through the kindly interest of many friends, and especially that of my relative and comrade, Col. J. H. Madden, of Danville, Illinois, the revised and collated Story is now offered to the public and corrected from the original notes and MSS.

Yours in F. C. & L.,
The Author.

CONTENTS.

[Transcriber's Note: Chapter XVIII was duplicated in the text. The Table of Contents has been changed to reflect the chapter numbers given in the text.]

ILLUSTRATIONS.

THE BOY SPY.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTORY.

A successful scout, or spy, is like a great poet in one respect: he is born, not made—subject to the requisition of the military genius of the time.

That I was not born to be hanged is a self-evident proposition. Whether I was a successful scout or not, the reader of these pages must determine.

It was my good fortune to have first seen the light under the shadow of one of the spurs of the Blue Ridge Mountains, in the beautiful Cumberland Valley, in the State of Pennsylvania, near Mason and Dixon's line.

This same locality is distinguished as the birthplace of President James Buchanan, and also that of Thomas A. Scott, President of the Pennsylvania Railroad and its system, under whom I served. Mr. Scott used to say he had leased this position for ninety-nine years with twice the salary of the president of the United States.

My grandfather, who had been an officer in the Royal Navy, of Great Britain, served in the same ships with Lord Nelson, had after the manner of his class kept a record of his remarkable and thrilling services in the British Navy during the wars of that period.

The discovery of this, grandfather's diary—amongst other war papers—after his death, I may say, here, accounts in a manner for the spirit of adventure in my disposition. I come by it naturally, and following the precedent, submit this unpretending narrative, as another grandfather's diary.

It appears that during the embargo declared during the war between the United States and England in 1812, my grandfather was caught ashore, as it were, in America.

His brother, George, was in the service of the East India Company, as a judge advocate, and lived on the Island of Ceylon at that time. Desiring to reach this brother, by getting a vessel at New Orleans, he started to walk overland, through a hostile country, to the headwaters of the Ohio and Mississippi Valley at Pittsburgh, where he could get a canoe or boat.

It is a singular coincidence that this young English officer, in his scouting through an enemy's country, traversed substantially the very same ground—Winchester, Va., Harper's Ferry, Fredericksburg, etc.—that I, his youthful grandson, tramped over as a scout in another war half a century later.

It was while on this journey that he was taken sick, and during a long illness he was nursed back to life by my grandmother, whom he subsequently married, and there located as an American citizen.

He became the school-master of the community, and in course of time, Thomas A. Scott was one of his brightest but most troublesome scholars.

In the process of this evolution, I became a messenger boy and student of telegraphy in the office of Colonel Thos. A. Scott, who was then superintendent of railways at Pittsburgh.

In the same office, as a private clerk and telegrapher, was Mr. Andrew Carnegie, now widely known as a capitalist.

"Andy," as this distinguished philanthropist was then familiarly known, and myself were "boys together," and the reader is permitted to refer to him for—as he recently assured me, in his laughing and hearty manner—that he would give me a good endorsement, as one of his wild boys.

Under Mr. Andrew Carnegie's instruction I soon became a proficient operator, and when but a boy very easily read a telegraph instrument by sound, which in those days was considered an extraordinary acquirement. Through Mr. Scott's kindly interest in myself, I had been promoted rapidly in railway work, and before leaving Pittsburgh was chief or division operator. This gave me very large responsibilities, for a boy of my age, as the road then had but one track, and close watch had to be kept of the various trains moving in the same or opposite directions. It became a habit of Colonel Scott, on receiving news of any accident to a train or bridge along the road, to have an engine fired up and be off at once, with me along provided with a pocket instrument and a little coil of copper wire. It seems now to me that such trips usually began at night.

Arrived at the place of wreck, I would at once shin up a telegraph pole, get the wire down, cut it, and establish a "field station" at once, the nearest rail fence and a convenient bowlder furnishing desk and office seat, where I worked while Colonel Scott remained in charge of the work. He was thus at once put in direct communication with every train and station on the road, and in as full personal control as if in his comfortable Pittsburgh office. Such work perfected me in field-telegraphing. At times, when a burned or broken bridge or a wrecked train delayed traffic, trains would accumulate at the point, and the noises of escaping steam from the engines, the progressing work, and the babel of voices about me, made it utterly impossible to hear any sound from my little magnet, or pocket instrument. I then discovered, by sheer necessity, that I could read the messages coming, by watching the movement of the armature of the magnet. The vibrations of a telegraph armature are so slight as to be scarcely perceptible to the naked eye, yet a break, or the separating of the points of contact, are necessary to make the proper signals. Further experiences developed the phenomena that when sound and sight failed I could read still by the sense of feeling, by holding my finger-tips gently against the armature and noting its pulsations. I thus became by practice not only proficient, but expert in telegraphy. Telegraphers know, though the general public may not, that messages can be sent by touching together the ends of a cut telegraph wire, and can be received by holding the ends to the tongue. My tongue, however, has always been too sensitive to take that kind of "subtle fluid."

Telegraphers have many methods of secret communication with each other: rattling teaspoons or tapping knives and forks at the table, or the apparently aimless "Devil's tattoo" of the fingers on the table or armchair are common methods, and I have heard of one in a tight corner who winked out a message appealing for help. It might be well to avoid playing poker at a table where two telegraphers are chums, for it is possible that one might learn when to stay in a little longer for the raise and make a pot a little bigger.

When Colonel Thos. A. Scott became Assistant Secretary of War he called into his service the railroaders and telegraphers whom he knew would be serviceable and faithful to the government. I record here the statement that the first to reach Washington upon Secretary Cameron's call, was Mr. Scott and his Pennsylvania railroaders and telegraphers, who rebuilt and operated the destroyed Baltimore & Ohio railways and telegraphs, that enabled the first troops to reach the Capitol.

It was on account of my supposed qualification as a telegrapher that I was subsequently detailed to enter the rebel lines and intercept their telegraphic communication at their headquarters.

On one occasion, mentioned further on in this narrative, I was lounging near the old wooden shanty near General Beauregard's headquarters at Manassas Junction. I easily read important dispatches to and from Richmond and elsewhere, and repeated the operation hour after hour, several days and nights. It was unfortunately the case, however, that I then had no means of rapid communication with Washington to transmit the information gained, although in later years of the war it would have been easy, as I was then a signal officer in the Army of the Potomac, and might have utilized some retired tree-top and signaled over the heads of the enemy to our own lines. This is rather anticipating my story, and, as Uncle Rufus Hatch once said, when I was acting as his private secretary, and he would become a little mixed in dictating letters to me, "We must preserve the sequence."

It is more than likely that I was too young in those days to properly appreciate the advantages of the rapid advancement I had gained in position and salary, especially as the latter enabled me to make a fool of myself; and here comes in my "first love story," which I tell, because it had much to do with the adventures of which this narrative treats.

"I loved a maid,
And she was wondrous fair to see,"

and I will designate her as No. 1, to distinguish this from numerous other such affairs—on both sides of the lines. This affair, which served to further train me for the duties that lay before me, resulted in a visit, during the winter before the war broke out, to Western Texas, where a wealthy bachelor uncle had a well-stocked plantation, between San Antonio and Austin. There I became associated with the young sons of the best Texas families, and acquired the ability—I had nearly written agility—to ride a bucking broncho and become an expert shot with a Colt's revolver.

My experience as a rather fresh young Pennsylvania boy among the young Southern hot-bloods would make too long a chapter here, but suffice it to say that a youthful tendency to give my opinion on political questions, without regard to probable consequences, kept me in constant hot water after President Lincoln's election.

Among the young men with whom I associated, through my uncle's standing and influence, was a grandson of the famous Colonel Davy Crockett, with whom I became involved in a difficulty, and, greatly to the astonishment of the "boys," I promptly accepted his challenge to a pistol fight. Some of our older and more sensible friends quickly put an end to the affair. When my uncle (who was absent at Austin at the time) returned, he furnished me with a pocketful of gold double-eagles and shipped me off by stage to Galveston, whence I crossed the Gulf to New Orleans and came up the Mississippi to my home.

Immediately preceding the inauguration of Mr. Lincoln, following closely upon my return from Texas, I came on to Washington City. The purpose of this visit being solely a desire to gratify an aroused curiosity, by witnessing the sights and incidents consequent upon the impending change of the administration, about which there was much interest and excitement. As I had plenty of time, but not much money, to spend, I looked about for a cheap hotel, and was directed to the St. Charles, which was then, as now, located on the corner of Third and Pennsylvania avenues. Here I became domiciled, for the time being, and it so happened that I was seated at the same table in the hotel with Senator Andy Johnson, of Tennessee, who was living there, and perhaps through this accidental circumstance it came about that I was so soon to be engaged in the government's service.

Mr. Johnson, it will be remembered, had obtained some distinction by his vigorous defense of the Union, in the Senate, at a time when nearly all the rest of the Southern Senators were either openly or secretly plotting treason. In my youthful enthusiasm for the cause of the Union, which had become strengthened by the Southern associations of the preceding months, I naturally gave to Mr. Johnson my earliest admiration and sympathy. One day, while walking up Pennsylvania avenue, I was surprised to see standing in front of Brown's, now the Metropolitan Hotel, a certain gentleman, earnestly engaged in conversation with Senator Wigfall, whom I had known in Texas as one of the prominent State officials under the then existing administration of Governor Sam. Houston. This gentleman, whose name I withhold, because he is living to-day and is well-known throughout Texas, was also at that time a business associate and a personal friend of the Texas uncle before referred to.

I was pleasantly recognized, and at once introduced to Senator Wigfall as the "nephew of my uncle." Mr. Wigfall's dogmatic manner impressed me unfavorably, being so unlike that of Mr. Johnson.

I spent a great many evenings at Brown's Hotel, in the rooms of my Texas friend, where were congregated every night, and late into the mornings, too, nearly all of the Texas people who were at that time in the city. In this way, without seeking their confidence, I became a silent and attentive listener to the many schemes and plans that were brewing for the overthrow of the government.

Among the frequent visitors were Wigfall and Hon. John C. Breckinridge, of Kentucky, both of whom are now dead; but there are yet among the living certain distinguished Congressmen, at present in Washington, who were of that treasonable gang, who will not, I apprehend, deny the truth of the facts I here state.

This gentleman's mission in Washington, as I learned incidentally during his interviews with Senator Wigfall and others, was to secure the passage through Congress of some appropriation bill of a special character, for the benefit of Texas, which, if I rightly remember, referred to lands or school funds, the object being to secure the benefit of the act before that State should pass the secession ordinance. It was understood and admitted during these talks of the plotting traitors that Texas should, as a matter of course, secede, but they must first take with them all they could obtain from the general government, the delay in passing the ordinance being caused only by the desire to first secure this money, which this agent had been sent here to press through Wigfall and others in Congress, and upon the advices of their success being reported to Texas, the act of secession would promptly follow this twin robbery and conspiracy.

I happened to be present, in the crowded gallery of the Senate, when Senator Wigfall, of Texas, during a speech in reply to Johnson, in an indirect and insinuating way, while glancing significantly toward Senator Johnson, quoted the celebrated words of Marmion: "Lord Angus, thou has lied." This incident being discussed at our table one day, at which Senator Johnson occupied the post of honor, I took a favorable opportunity to intimate to him that I was in possession of facts that would show Mr. Wigfall to be not only a traitor, but that he was then scheming to first rob the government he had sworn to protect, and afterward intended to destroy, and in my boyish way suggested that the Senator should hurl the epithets back at him.

I did not for a moment consider that I was betraying any confidence in thus telling of the traitorous schemes to which I had been an unwilling listener.

Mr. Johnson seemed to be impressed with my statements, and for a while lost interest in his dinner. In his free and kindly way he was easily able to "draw me out" to his entire satisfaction, and secured from me the story with the necessary "authorities and references." As he rose from the table he walked around to my seat, shaking my hand cordially, while he invited me to his room for a further conference.

After that day, while I remained in Washington City, during the time preceding the inauguration of Mr. Lincoln, and for some weeks following, I became a welcome visitor at the Senator's room, oscillating between the headquarters of the rebel conspirators at Brown's and the private rooms of the leader of the Union cause, and thus was begun my first secret-service work.

I had brought with me to Washington some letters from Mr. Scott and other railroad friends, and also enjoyed through this connection a personal acquaintance with "Old Glory to God," as the Hon. John Covode was called during the war. This name originated from a telegram which Mr. Covode wrote to a friend, in which he intended to convey the intelligence of a great Union victory; but in the excitement of his big, honest, loyal heart over a Union success, which in the early days was a rarity, he neglected to mention the important fact of the victory, and the telegram as received in Philadelphia simply read:

"To John W. Forney:
* * * * "Glory to God. "John Covode."

He spelled God with a little g, Philadelphia with an F, but he got there just the same.

My days in the Capitol at that time were usually spent in the gallery of the Senate, where were to be seen and heard the great leaders on both sides. Some of the Southern Senators were making their farewell speeches, the words of which I, in my youthful innocence, tried vainly to reconcile with their action, as well as with the proceedings of a peace Congress, which was being held at Willard's old hall on F street.

The evenings of these days I devoted to the observation of the operations of the Southern conspirators at the hotel, and watched with concern the preparations for the inauguration of Mr. Lincoln, who had secretly arrived in the city.

In the course of my amateur work among the Southern leaders, it so happened that Mr. Covode and Senator Johnson had been brought together, and they became mutually interested in my services.

One day Mr. Covode said to me: "See here, young feller, you might do some good for the government in this way. I've talked with Johnson about you, and he says he'll help to get you fixed up by the War Department."

When I expressed a willingness to do anything, the old man said, in his blunt, outspoken way:

"Hold on now till I tell you about this thing first." Then proceeding to explain in his homely, honest words:

"There is a lot of money appropriated for secret service, and if you get onto that your pay will be mighty good; but," he added, "it's damned dangerous; for as sure as them fellers ketch you once they will hang you, that's sure as your born."

When I observed that I wasn't born to be hanged, he said further, as he fumbled over some papers in his hand:

"I don't know about that either, because Scott writes me a letter here that says, 'you are smart enough, but you have,'" reading from the letter to refresh his memory, "'unbounded but not well directed energy'." Which I didn't know whether to consider complimentary or otherwise.

It was arranged that we should visit the Secretary of War together, to consult in regard to this future service. We called on General Cameron, the Secretary, one morning, to whom I was introduced by Mr. Covode, who explained to the Secretary in a few words, in an undertone, what he deemed to be my qualifications and advantages for employment in the secret service.

There were no civil-service rules in force at that time. The Secretary's office was crowded with persons waiting an opportunity to present to him their claims. After looking around the room, the Secretary suggested that, as this was a matter he would like to talk over when he was not so busy, we had better call again.

In a few days afterward I went alone to the old War Department Building, where I stood about for an hour or two, watching the crowd of office-seekers, anxious to serve their country under the new administration, but without getting an opportunity to get anywhere near the Secretary's door.

This same operation became with me a daily duty for quite a while. One morning I went earlier than usual, and met the Secretary as he passed along the corridor to his office, and bluntly accosted him, handing him some letters. I followed him into the room, and stood by the altar, or desk, with a couple of other penitents who were on the anxious bench, while he put on his spectacles and began to read the papers I had handed him. Turning to me, he said: "Now I'm too busy to attend to this matter. I intend to do something in this direction, but I've not had a chance to look it up; suppose you come—" Here I interrupted him and said: "I'd like to go down to Montgomery and see what's going on there." This seemed to open a way out of a difficulty for the Secretary, and he at once said:

"That's all right; you just do that, and let's see what you can do, and I'll fix your matter up with Covode." Then turning to his desk he wrote something on the back of one of my papers in a handwriting which, to say the least, was mighty peculiar; something which I have never been able to decipher; it was, however, an endorsement from the Secretary of War.

When I showed the Secretary's penmanship to Mr. Scott, suggesting to him that I thought it was a request for him to furnish me with passes to Montgomery, Alabama, and return, Scott appreciated the joke, and promptly furnished me the necessary documents, saying, laughingly: "You needn't be afraid to carry that paper along with you anywhere; there isn't anybody that will be able to call it an incendiary document."

I transferred myself at once to the field of my observations from the United States Capital at Washington to that of the Confederate States of America, then forming at Montgomery, Alabama, traveling via Louisville, stopping a day to see the wonders of the Mammoth Cave; thence, via Chattanooga, Tennessee, and Augusta, Georgia, arriving late one night in Montgomery.

CHAPTER II.

ON DUTY AS A SPY AT THE REBEL CAPITAL, MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA—LIVING IN SAME HOTEL WITH JEFF DAVIS AND HIS CABINET—CONSPIRATORS FROM WASHINGTON INTERVIEWED—BOUNTY OFFERED BY CONFEDERATES BEFORE A GUN WAS FIRED—FORT SUMTER AND FORT PICKENS.

I was quartered at the Exchange Hotel, which was the headquarters and home of the leading men of the new government then gathering from all parts of the South. Here I spent some days in pretty close companionship with these gentlemen, taking notes in a general way, and endeavoring to learn all I could in regard to their plans.

I had learned, while skirmishing about Washington, to know at sight nearly all of the prominent people who were active in this movement, and perhaps the fact that I had been somewhat accustomed to being in their society, and being quite youthful gave me an assurance that enabled me to go about among them in a free and open way, without exciting any suspicion.

There were among the guests, a recent arrival from Washington City, a gentleman of some apparent prominence, as I judged from the amount of attention he was receiving.

I made it a point to look closely after him, and soon gathered the information that he had been a trusted employé of the Government, and at the same time had been secretly furnishing the rebel leaders, for some months, with information of the government's plans. He was at this time the bearer of important papers to the rebel government. This gentleman's name, which has escaped my memory in these twenty-five years, was placed upon record in the War Department at the time.

Jeff Davis, who had been chosen President, and had but recently come from his Mississippi home to Montgomery, attended by a committee of distinguished Southerners, who had been deputed to notify him of his election, lived at the same hotel, where I saw him frequently every day.

There were also to be seen in the hotel office, in the corridors, in the barbers' shops, and even in the bar-room, groups of animated, earnest, intensely earnest men, discussing the great "impending conflict."

I walked about the streets of the Confederate Capital with perfect freedom, visiting any place of interest that I could find. Throughout the city there was not much in the way of enthusiasm; indeed, the fact that was particularly noticeable then was the apparent difference in this respect between the people at the hotel and the citizens.

Of course there were meetings and speeches, with the usual brass-band accompaniment every evening, while, during the day, an occasional parade up and down the principal streets of the town, headed by the martial fife and drum, which were always played with delight and a great deal of energy by the colored boys.

There was an absence of enthusiasm and excitement among the common people, which was a disappointment to those who had expected so much.

The existence of an historical fact, which I have never seen printed, is, that before a gun had been fired by either party, there were posted on the walls of the Confederate Capital large handbills offering a "bounty" to recruits to their army.

In my walks about town my attention was attracted by a bill, posted on a fence, bearing in large letters the heading,

BOUNTY.

The word was at that time something entirely new to me, and as I was out in search of information, I walked up closer to learn its meaning, and was surprised at the information, as well as the advice the advertisement contained, which was to the effect that certain moneys would be paid all those who would enlist in a certain Alabama regiment.

Lest there should be a disposition to challenge the correctness of this somewhat remarkable statement, I will mention now that this fact was reported to the War Department, and a copy of this bounty advertisement was also embodied in a letter that was intended to be a description of the scenes at Montgomery, in April, 1861, during the firing on Sumter, which I wrote at the time and mailed secretly in the Montgomery Postoffice, addressed to Robert McKnight, then the editor of the Pittsburgh Chronicle, to which I, with an apprehension of a possible Rebel censorship, neglected to attach my name. Mr. McKnight, the next time I saw him, laughingly asked me if I hadn't sent him such a letter, saying he had printed it, with comments, at the time, which, as nearly as I can remember, was between April 18th and 20th, 1861.

This was probably among the first letters published from a "war correspondent," written from the actual seat of war.

Mr. Davis occupied a suite of rooms at the Exchange, on the left of the first corridor, and there were always congregated about his door groups of men, while others were constantly going and coming from his rooms.

I was a constant attendant about this door, and witnessed the many warm greetings of welcome that were so cordially extended to each new arrival as they reported to headquarters.

It seemed odd to hear those people talk about the "President," but of course I had to meekly listen to their immense conceit about their "government," as well as their expressions of contempt and hatred for that to which but a short time before, when they had the control, they were so devotedly attached.

In the same room with myself was a young fellow who had been at the school at West Point, from which he had resigned to enter the rebel service. He kept constantly talking to me about "My State," and the "plebians" of the North, but, as he was able to furnish me with some points, we became quite congenial friends and talked together, after going to bed, sometimes until long after midnight. I was, of course, when necessity or policy demanded it, one of the original secessionists.

The attention of everybody both North and South was being directed to Fort Sumter, and a good deal of the war-talk we heard about the Rebel headquarters was in regard to that.

This young fellow and I planned to go together to Charleston to see the ball open there, and, with this object in view, he set about to learn something of the plans of the "President," which kindness I duly appreciated.

One day, while lounging about the hotel corridors, I learned from a conversation between a group of highly exuberant Southern gentlemen, which was being hilariously carried on, that President Davis and his advisers had that day issued the necessary orders, or authority to General Beauregard, to commence firing on the Union flag at Fort Sumter the following day.

These gentlemen, none of whose names I remember, excepting Wm. L. Yancey, were so intent upon their success in thus "precipitating" the rebellion, that they took no notice of the innocent boy who was apparently so intent at that moment upon some interesting item in the paper, but I quietly gathered in all they had to say to each other, and at the first opportunity set about planning to make use of this information; but here I experienced, at the beginning of my career as a spy, the same unfortunate conditions that had so often baffled me and interfered with my success in the months and years following.

Though reckless and almost foolish in my boyish adventures, I was sufficiently cautious and discreet to know that a telegram conveying this news would not be permitted to go over the wires from Montgomery to Washington, and to have filed such a message would have subjected me to serious embarrassments.

There being no cipher facilities arranged so early in the war, I was left entirely without resource, though I did entertain a project of going to a neighboring town and from there arrange to manipulate the key myself, and in this manner try to give the information, but I was forced to abandon this scheme on learning, which I did by hanging about the dingy little Montgomery telegraph office, that all their communications were relayed or repeated once or twice either at Augusta or Chattanooga and Charleston before reaching the North.

I did the next best thing, however, hastily writing a letter to Washington, which I stealthily dropped into the postoffice, hurrying away lest the clerk should discover who had dropped a letter addressed to a foreign government without payment of additional postage.

Of those yet living who were witnesses of the "Great uprising of the North," after the fall of Fort Sumter, none are likely ever to forget the scenes which followed so quickly upon this first attempt of the Southern fire-eaters to "precipitate the Cotton States into the rebellion."

Solitary and alone I held my little indignation meeting in Montgomery, the capital of the rebel government, where I was at the time, if not a stranger in a strange land, at least an enemy in a foreign country. When the news of Fort Sumter's fall reached Montgomery it was bulletined "that every vestige of the hateful enemy has been gloriously driven from the soil of the pioneer Palmetto State," and I recall, with distinctness, that the universal comment then was: "We will next clean them out in the same way from Florida," etc.

I felt that, in having failed to get this information to Washington in advance, I had neglected a great opportunity to do the government an important service, but in this I was mistaken, as events subsequently proved that the authorities at Washington were powerless to prevent the bombardment that was anticipated.

There was no person among that people to whom I dare talk, for fear of betraying myself by giving vent to my feelings, so I walked wildly up and down the one main street of Montgomery in a manner that at any other time would have been considered eccentric, but, as everybody was wild that day, my actions were not noticed. Feeling that I must blow off steam some way or I should bust, I continued my walk out on the railroad track beyond the outskirts of the town, in the direction of Charleston. During my walk I met an old "Uncle," whom, from the color of his skin, I knew to be a true friend of the government, and into the wide-awake ears of this old man I poured a wild, incendiary harangue about what would surely happen to this people. This was not a very sensible thing to do, either, at that time, but I just had to say something to somebody, and this was my only chance. After having thus exhausted my high pressure on the poor old man, who must have thought me crazy, I discovered that my legs were "exhausted," too, and turned my face wearily back toward the city.

That night there were serenades and speeches, with the regular brass-band accompaniment impromptu processions up and down the main street, headed by the fife-and-drum music of the colored "boys," as all the "likely" colored men were called down South at that time, even if they were forty years old.

I had seen Jeff Davis once during the day, while in his room surrounded by a crowd of enthusiastic friends, and, though I did not have occasion to speak to "the President," I was close enough to him on the day he gave the command to fire Sumter, to have killed him on the spot, and I was about wild and crazy enough at the time to have made the attempt without once considering the consequences to myself, if there had occurred at the instant any immediate provocation.

Mr. Davis' manner and appearance always impressed me with a feeling of kindness and even admiration. In the years following it became my fate to have been near his person in disguise, frequently while in Richmond, and I could at any time then have ended his career by sacrificing my own life, if the exigencies of the government had in my imagination required it.

I took note of the fact that a great deal was being said about what they would do next, at Fort Pickens, in Pensacola Harbor. To this point I directed my attention, determined that another such an affair as this at Charleston should not escape me.

One night, shortly after I had reached Montgomery, when my West Point companion and I had retired for the night, but were yet talking over the great future of the South, as we did every night, he almost paralyzed me by saying, "Well, stranger, you talk all right, of course, but do you know that you remind me mightily of the fellows at the Point, who are all the time meddling about the affairs of our Southern States." Fortunately for me, perhaps, the room was dark at the time, which enabled me the better to hide the embarrassment that daylight must have shown in my face and manner. After recovering my breath a little, I put on an indignant air and demanded a repetition of the remark. This served to allay any suspicions that he may have been entertaining, for the young fellow, in his gentlemanly and courteous manner, was at once profuse in his explanations, which gave me the time to collect my thoughts. I told him that I was the nephew of an English gentleman, who lived away off in Western Texas, who owned any quantity of cattle and niggers; I was then on my way, from school at the North, to my Texas home, tarrying at Montgomery, en route, to meet some friends. This was more than satisfactory to the young man, who seemed to take especial pleasure after this in introducing me to any friends that we would come across while together so constantly in Montgomery.

This mother tongue "provincialism" was one of the greatest difficulties that I encountered in these Southern excursions, though at the time of which I am now writing strangers were not scrutinized so closely as became the rule soon after, when martial law was everywhere in operation, and provost-marshals were exceedingly numerous. I had endeavored to bridle my tongue as far as possible. My plan to quiet this apprehension was to play the "refugee" from Maryland, "my Maryland," or else, if the circumstances and surroundings were better adapted to it, I was an English sympathizer who had but recently arrived in the country. The Maryland racket was, however, the most popular, and it was also the easiest worked, because I had another uncle living in Baltimore, whom I had frequently visited, and, as has been stated, I was born almost on the Maryland line of English stock.

While in Montgomery it did not seem necessary to hang about the telegraph offices to obtain information. I availed myself however of this "facility" to learn something more definite about the programme they had laid out for Fort Pickens, in Pensacola Harbor, to which, after the fall of Fort Sumter, the attention of both the North and the South was being directed.

The "Government at Washington" which was at this time cut off from any communication with its officers at Pickens except by sea, had, after the manner of Major Anderson at Sumter, secretly withdrawn their little handful of troops, who were under the command of Lieutenant Slemmer, a native of Pennsylvania, step by step, as they were pressed by the arrival each day of detachments of quite fresh militia from the sovereign State of Florida, to Fort Barrancas first, then to Fort McRae, on the mainland, and from thence to Pickens, which is located on the extreme point of Santa Rosa Island, on the opposite side of the bay or harbor from Forts McRae and Barrancas.

I was able to learn from the general character of its extensive telegraph correspondence, which was being carried on over the wires, that President Lincoln had in some way expressed, in the hearing of the secret agents of the rebel government (who were in Washington and in constant communication with the conspirators at Montgomery) an earnest desire to reinforce Fort Pickens, with a view to holding possession of that one point in the "Cotton State" that had seceded from the Union; and the Navy Department at Washington, especially desiring to control the harbor and navy yards located there, had, if I remember aright, already dispatched by water a small fleet to their aid, but which would require a week or ten days to reach Pensacola, they having to go around by the ocean to Key West and up the Gulf of Mexico, doubling the entire Peninsula of Florida.

As I had left Washington some time before, and had not had any communication with the North while in Montgomery, all this information was derived entirely through Rebel sources, and more particularly by the noisy tongue of a telegraph sounder, which talked loud enough for me to hear whenever I chose to get within sound of its brazen voice.

I was exceedingly anxious to get back North, that I might take some active part in the coming struggle, but fate decreed otherwise; and, instead of getting out of this tight place, it was my destiny to have been led still deeper into the mire. I was within a day's travel of the beleaguered little garrison at Fort Pickens, with a positive knowledge that the government was coming to their assistance, and also the information that at the same time the Rebel government had some designs upon them, the exact nature of which I could not ascertain.

In this emergency, while I do not believe that I felt it a duty, I am sure that I did think it would be a good thing for the fellows at Pickens to be informed of the intentions of both the governments toward them, and as I could not then communicate with Secretary Cameron, at Washington, I concluded to take the matter in my own hands, and find out, if possible, just what was proposed, and endeavor to communicate with Secretary Cameron.

By giving close attention to the guests at the hotel, who were mostly officials of the newly made government, I ascertained by mere accident that a certain gentleman was at that moment getting ready to leave the hotel for the boat, on his way to Pensacola as a bearer of dispatches or as a commissioner—there were lots of commissioners in those early days—to settle the status of affairs at that point. This circumstance decided my actions at once, and as I had seen enough of Montgomery, and was besides becoming a little uneasy about my status there, I concluded to accompany this commissioner and, if possible, anticipate him in bearing my own dispatch to Lieutenant Slemmer, so I shadowed the ambassador closely and walked up the gang plank at the same time he did; as I remember very well the plank was very springy and the ambassador of Jeff Davis and the secret agent of the Secretary of War kept step, and marked time on the gang plank, both bound for the same destination but on widely different errands.

CHAPTER III.

PENSACOLA, FLORIDA—IN REBEL LINES—FORT PICKENS—ADMIRAL PORTER AND THE NAVY.

The sail down the Alabama river from Montgomery to Mobile was most agreeable.

I do not now recollect any incident of the trip worthy of mention. I did not, of course, obtrude myself upon our ambassador's dignity, knowing that as long as the boat kept going he was not liable to escape from me.

There were some ladies aboard, and to these the gallant captain of the boat introduced his distinguished passenger, and among them they made up a card party, which occupied their attention long after I had gone to my room to sleep and dream of my home and "the girls I left behind me."

I became quite homesick that night, and would very much rather have been aboard a steamboat on the Mississippi river headed up stream than penned up in this queer-looking craft, loaded with rebels, which was carrying me, I imagined as I half slept, down to perdition.

There was a steam music machine on the boat somewhere, called a calliope, which made the night and day both hideous.

They played "Home, Sweet Home," among other selections, but even to my feelings, at that time, the musical expression was not exactly such as would bring tears to one's eyes.

The machine, however, served to rouse the lazy colored people all along the high banks of the river, who flocked to the shores like a lot of crows.

We reached Mobile in due time, and my dignitary and his "confidential companion," as I might be permitted to term myself, may be found properly registered in the books of the Battle House at Mobile, some time in the latter part of April, 1861.

I will mention how, also, that an account of this trip and its object was written on the blank letter-heads of this hotel, addressed in a careless handwriting to Mr. J. Covode, Washington, D. C., unsigned by myself, and secretly dropped into the postoffice at Mobile. I imagined that Mobile being a large city and having several routes of communication with the North, my letter might, by some possibility, get through, and, strange to relate, it did, and was subsequently quoted by Mr. Covode in the Committee on the Conduct of War.

I lost sight of my "traveling companion" while in Mobile. You know it would not have been either polite or discreet to have pressed my company too closely on an official character like this, so it happened that he left the hotel without consulting me, and I supposing, of course, that he had left for Pensacola, made my arrangements to follow. To reach Pensacola there was a big river or bay to cross from Mobile. When I got aboard the little boat, the first thing I did, of course, was to look quietly about for "my man." He was not aboard, as I found after the boat had gotten out into the stream, when it was too late to turn back.

An old stage coach or hack was at that time the only conveyance to Pensacola, except by water. The thing was piled full of humanity inside and out—young and old men, who were fair representations of the different types of the Southern character, all of whom were bent on visiting the next battle-scene—then a point of great interest in the South since the curtain had been rung down at Sumter.

They were all "feeling mighty good," too, as they say down there; every blessed fellow seemed to be provided with an individual flask, and during the dreadfully tiresome drag of the old coach across the sandy and sometimes swampy roads of that part of Florida and Alabama our party became quite hilarious.

Among them was a prominent official of one of the rebel military companies, then located about Pensacola, who was quite disgusted at the tardiness of their "Government" in not moving at once on Fort Pickens. He and a fat old gentleman, who was more conservative, and defended the authorities, discussed the military situation at length during the trip; and as both had been over the ground at Pensacola, and were somewhat familiar with the situation, they unintentionally gave me in advance some interesting points to look up when we should reach there. Among other things, they talked about a "masked battery" of ten-inch Columbiads. Now, I didn't know at that time what a "masked battery" could be, and had no idea that ten-inch Columbiads meant big cannon that would throw a ball that measured ten inches in diameter.

I had formed a plan of procedure in advance, which was to pretend, as at Montgomery, to be the nephew of an Englishman, on my way from school in the North to my Texas home, and was just stopping over at Pensacola to gratify my desire to see the "Yankees cleaned out" there. I had been carefully advised early in this undertaking not to attempt to gather information by asking questions, but, as a rule, to let others do the talking, and to listen and confirm by observation, if possible. This was good advice, volunteered by a discreet old man, who had bid me good-by at Washington some weeks back; and that beautiful spring evening, as I was being driven right into the camps of the rebel army, accompanied by men who were the first real soldiers I had seen, I recalled with a distinctness almost painful the words of caution and advice which at that time I had scarcely heeded.

When the old hack reached Pensacola all were somewhat toned down, and after a hearty supper and a hasty look around the outside of the dirty little tavern at which we stopped, I went to bed, to sleep, perhaps to dream of home and friends two thousand miles away. The distance seemed to be increased ten-fold by the knowledge that the entire territory between me and home was encompassed by a howling mob that would be only too glad to tear me to pieces, as a stray dog among a pack of bloodhounds, while the other path was the boundless ocean.

The soldiers who in the early days were not so well disciplined as in after years, took possession of the hotel, at least all the down stairs part of it, where there was liquor and eatables, and kept up such a terrific row that sleep was almost impossible. Early next morning I was out of my cot, and before breakfast I took a walk around the place.

The town of Pensacola is situated on the low, sandy mainland, on the bay, and lies some distance from the navy yard, or that portion of Pensacola which is occupied by the government for the Forts Barrancas and McRae. This government reservation is quite extensive, including the beautiful bay, navy yard and grounds, with officers' quarters, and shell roads on the beach for some distance beyond the yard; on the further extremity were built Forts Barrancas and McRae, which were at this time in possession of the rebel soldiers.

Lieutenant Slemmer a short time previously moved his little force of regulars across the bay to Fort Pickens, which was on a spit or spur of Santa Rosa Island, almost immediately opposite, but I think about four miles distant.

This sombre old Fort Pickens is built upon about as desolate and isolated a spot as will be found anywhere on the coast from Maine to Texas, but viewed as it was by me that morning, from the camps of the rebels, standing behind their great masked batteries, in which were the immense ten-inch Columbiads, I felt from the bottom of my soul that I never saw anything so beautiful as the old walls of the fort, on which the Stars and Stripes were defiantly floating in the breeze, right in the face of their big guns, and in spite of all the big blustering talk I had listened to for so many days.

How glad I was to see that flag there. I felt as if I could just jump and yell with delight and then fly right over the bay, to get under its folds once more. I had not seen the flag since leaving Washington, and had heard of its surrender at Sumter in the hateful words of the Rebels. I am not able to describe the feelings which came over me at this time, and after a lapse of twenty-five years, while I am writing about it, the same feelings come over me. Only those who have witnessed the picture of the Stars and Stripes floating over a fortress, viewed from the standpoint of an enemy's camp, can properly appreciate its beauty. All my homesickness and forebodings of evil vanished at the sight, and with redoubled energy I determined to discover and thwart any schemes that might be brewing in the Rebel camp to bring down that beautiful emblem. I became apprehensive lest I might be too late, and fearful that these immense Columbiads, if once they belched forth their ten-inch shells, would soon batter down the walls, and I determined that the presence of this masked battery must be made known to the Commandant at the Fort. It was upon this battery that the Rebels depended for success, as they had said it was erected secretly, and the big guns were mounted at night. Fort Pickens had not been built to resist an attack from the rear, as none such had ever been contemplated; and the Rebel officers knowing the weakness of this inside of the Fort, had erected their masked battery of great guns to play upon that particular point. They were all positive, too, that Lieutenant Slemmer and his men were in total ignorance of the existence of this battery, which was correct, as subsequently demonstrated.

I became so much interested in the exciting and strange surroundings, in the very midst of which I found myself one morning at Pensacola, that I had almost forgotten about our commissioner, who must have left Mobile by way of the gulf in one of the old boats that plied between the two cities. Anyway, I had no further use for him now, as everything was right before my eyes, and I saw at once that they meant war.

It was understood, in a general way of course, that all these great preparations opposite Fort Pickens was for the purpose of driving off the "invaders" and capturing the old fort. That afternoon, after having tramped about over the sandy beach until I was thoroughly fatigued, I sat down in the rear of some earthworks that were being constructed under the directions of some of their officers. After waiting for a favorable opportunity, I ventured to ask one of them if there wasn't enough big cannon already mounted to bombard that fort over there, pointing toward Pickens. To which he replied curtly, "If you are around here when we begin the job you will find out all about that." I did not press the inquiry further just then, but I kept my eyes and ears open, and made good use of my legs as well, and tramped about through that miserable, sandy, dirty camp till I became too tired to go further.

The navy yard proper, which included the well-kept grounds around the officers' quarters, about which were growing in beautiful luxuriance the same tropical plants of that section, was between, or in rear of, the rebel batteries and the town of Pensacola.

In my walks about the camps I strutted boldly through the open gates, before which stood an armed sentry, and walked leisurely about the beautiful grounds. I took occasion to try to talk to an old invalid sailor who had been left at the hospital at that point by some man-of-war. The conversation was not exactly of such a character as would invite one to prolong a visit in the place, as all I could get out from him was "Just mind what I tell ye, now, youngster, will you? The Yaller Jack is bound to clean out this whole damn place before very long; you better go home, and stay there, too." After this pleasant conversation he hobbled off, without waiting for any further remarks from me.

There was a telegraph office at Pensacola, which I visited. I learned of a dispatch making some inquiry of the officials about the probability of "reducing" the fort. I didn't exactly understand then what was meant by "reducing" a fort, and imagined for a while that it referred in some way to cutting down its proportions. On inquiry, however, I gathered its true import, and learned also, by way of illustrations from the lips of a Rebel officer, that "now that Columbiad battery, which is masked, and has been built at night without the knowledge of the enemy, is the machine that is going to do the 'reducing,' or, if you like it better, demolishing of the fort, because," said he, as he became enthusiastic, "that battery is so planted that it is out of range of any guns there are at the fort, and it will work on the rear or weak side of the old fort, too."

This conversation was held at the "tavern" during the evening, after this blatant officer had refreshed himself after the day's work. I ascertained that he had been an officer in the United States Army, and was of course familiar with the exact condition of the affairs at the Fort.

Each day, as soon as I had had breakfast, I would start out on my long walks down past the navy yard, through and beyond the rebel earthworks. There was not a single cannon pointed toward the fort or the ships, which were lying out beyond, that I did not personally inspect.

I made a careful mental inventory of everything, and had the names of the regiments, and each officer commanding them, carefully stowed away in my memory, with the expectation, in some way not yet quite clear, of sending the full details across that bay to the United States commander at Pickens. That I was not suspected at all, is probably due to the fact that at this same time visitors were of daily occurrence—ladies and gentlemen came like excursion parties from Mobile and other convenient points, as everybody expected there would be just such scenes as had been witnessed at Charleston a few days previous.

The earthworks, as will be understood, extended for quite a long distance on the beach and were intended also to oppose the entrance of hostile ships to the harbor, it being well understood that the fort could only receive their heavy supplies at the regular landing, or pier, which, as before stated, was on the inside of the bay or the weak wall of the fort. Any light supplies, as well as men and ammunition, must necessarily be landed through the surf, on the outside of Santa Rosa Island.

Fort McRae was an entirely round, turret-shaped old work, situated at the extreme outer point. Next to it, and some distance inside, was Fort Barrancas, while all along the beach—in suitable locations—were "sand batteries" and the great masked battery.

Here I saw for the first time piles of sand-bags laying one above the other, in tiers, like they now handle car-loads of wheat in California—wicker baskets filled with sand, which we used to see in the school-book pictures of the war with Mexico.

No persons were allowed to approach the masked battery, the existence of which was ingeniously concealed from view by a dense growth, or thicket, something like sage-bush, that had not been disturbed by the excavations.

Sentries were placed some distance from this, who warned all visitors to pass some distance to the rear, from which a good view could be had of the entire work. To better conceal this terrible battery, squads of soldiers were employed, diligently engaged in mounting guns on another little battery in full view of the officers at Pickens.

Lieutenant Slemmer told me, when I saw him a few days after this, that he had kept an officer on the lookout continually, and saw all this work, and though they suspected that larger guns would be put into use, they had failed to discover any signs of them.

I had formed an acquaintance with a young officer, I think of an Alabama company, in whose company I had visited some points that were not easily accessible to strangers. In this way, I got inside of "bomb proofs" and magazines, and went through Fort McRae, which was then being used as a guard-house or prison.

With my newly-found friend, I went in bathing in the evenings, and was introduced by him to others, who had the privilege of using the boats, and we frequently took short sails about the bay, but always back of the navy yard, or between that and the town. Looking toward Pickens we could see at any and all times the solitary sentinel on the ramparts, and occasionally some signs of life about the "barn door" that faced toward us. The number of vessels outside was being increased by new arrivals occasionally, when some excitement would be created by the firing of salutes.

One of the queer things, and that which seemed to interest the officers as well as every soldier in sight, was the display of signal flags at the fort, which would be answered by the appearance of a string of bright little flags from the men-of-war, which were constantly dancing up and down on the swell, while at anchor a couple of miles outside. Even the colored boys and cooks would, at the appearance of this phenomena, neglect their fires and spoil a dinner perhaps, to watch, with an interest that became contagious, the operation of this signaling. Many of them thought, no doubt, that this was an indication of the commencement of hostilities, and anxiously hoped to hear a gun next.

There was some apprehension among the officers that one of the men-of-war might run past the batteries at night and destroy the navy yard and town.

If there had been a signal officer on the ramparts of Fort Pickens with a good glass, advised of my presence on the sandbank (with my subsequent familiarity with army signaling), it would have been not only possible, but entirely practicable, for me to have signaled by the mere movement of my arms, or perhaps fingers, the information that was so important that they should have. These additional war facilities did not come into use for a year after, when the necessity arose for it.

There was loading with lumber at the pier at Pensacola a large three-masted English sailing vessel to put to sea, some arrangement having been made with the authorities on both sides to permit her to go out. I had been figuring on a plan to get a letter over to the Fort secretly. It did not at first occur to me that it would be possible to cross myself with safety, and knowing that in passing out, this ship would have to run in close by Fort Pickens, I set about to mature a plan to make use of this opportunity, and with this object in view I spent some time aboard the ship trying to make the acquaintance of someone.

But I found this to be too uncertain, and too slow besides. The infernal Englishmen were openly hostile to the government. It was my daily custom to sit on a sandbank right in the rear of my Rebel officers' camp, and, while not otherwise occupied, I would gaze by the hour toward that little band in the grim-looking old prison of a fort, and wish and plan and pray that I could in some way have but one minute's talk with Lieutenant Slemmer.

I felt that I must get word to him at any cost. I could not risk swimming, on account of the numerous sharks in the water, which were more to be feared than the harbor boats that patrolled up and down between the two forces.

There were at Pensacola, as at all such places, small boats for hire to fishing and pleasure parties. I concluded that by hiring one of these boats for a few days' fishing, with a colored boatman to accompany me, while ostensibly spending the day in sight of the guard-boats fishing—innocently fishing for suckers—to disarm any suspicion, I might have an opportunity, when it became dark, to crowd toward the opposite shore of Santa Rosa Island, some distance from Fort Pickens; and once on the island I could, under cover of night, steal down the shore to the Fort, and communicate with the officers, and, still under cover of the darkness, return to the mainland and make tracks through the swamps towards Mobile or New Orleans.

In carrying out this plan, it was essential that I should find a colored boatman to pilot and row me out on the bay, on whom I might safely trust my return and escape from the place. By way of reconnoitering, or practice, I hired such a boat for a couple of hours' pleasure, taking a companion with me, and in this way I looked over the ground—or, rather, water—and concluded that the scheme was feasible, and determined to put it into execution as soon as possible.

In anticipation of this sudden departure, I made a final visit to the camp of some of the friends, with whom I had become acquainted, that night, to say good-by. In this way my Montgomery commissioner's errand was accidentally brought to view. While talking about leaving, one of the officers said, "You should wait a day or two and see the fun;" and when I expressed a doubt as to the early commencement of the ball, he continued, "Oh, but there is a bearer of dispatches here from Montgomery, who says those Texas troops have been ordered here, and as soon as they get here from New Orleans the plan is for us all to go over on the island, away back, and, after the Columbiads have battered down the walls, we're going to walk right into the Fort."

Here it was, then: the masked battery was to open the door and the troops were to approach from the island, and this must succeed, as the officers in the Fort certainly had no expectation of this sort of an attack from the rear, and could not resist it.

The men must be prevented from landing on the island; I must go over that night to post them, and I got there.

CHAPTER IV.

CROSSING THE BAY TO FORT PICKENS, ETC.

Strategy was another of the new military terms which I had heard used a great deal by these Rebel officers during their conversations among themselves and with their daily visitors and admirers. The general subject of conversation was in reference to the plans to "reduce" Fort Pickens, which persisted so defiantly in hoisting in their faces at every sunrise the Stars and Stripes, and which was only lowered at sunset with a salute from the guns of the Fort and the ships, to be again floated as surely as the sun rose the next morning and the guns boomed out on the morning air their good morning salute.

This daily flaunting of the flag had became quite as irritating to these fellows as the red flag to a bull, every one of whom seemed to me to be impatient to take some sort of steps individually to at once end the war then and there and get home. In all their talks, to which I was an attentive listener during the several days that I spent in their camps, I do not now recall a single expression of doubt from any of them as to their final success in capturing the fort. With them it was only a question of time. The criticism or demonstration which seemed to be most general among citizens as well as the military was, that the tardiness or delay in ordering the assault, upon the part of the Montgomery officials, was "outrageous." But now that they had a knowledge of the recent arrival of the "Commissioner"—whose title was changed on his arrival at the seat of war to that of "General" and "Bearer of Dispatches"—all hands seemed more happy and contented.

It was well understood among the higher officers there that the plan of the authorities was, secretly, or under cover of night, to make a lodgement on the Island by the use of the shipping they had in the harbor, and, once securely established there, the masked battery would open upon the weak or unprotected side of the Fort, and open a breach through which the Rebel troops would be able to rush in and capture the little garrison, and "haul down the flag." I had obtained full information of the enemy's plans.

As I had so closely followed the course of events from Montgomery; had personally visited every fort and battery; had become familiar with the number and location of the troops, as well as with the character and calibre of every gun that was pointed at the flag on Pickens; and had, beside this—which was more important—secured valuable information as to the proposed surprise of that little garrison.

My only desire was to get this information to our commander at Fort Pickens, for their own and the country's good, coupled with a strong inclination to defeat these bombastic rebels. I had no thought of myself whatever, and did not, in my reckless enthusiasm, stop for a moment to consider that, in attempting to run the gauntlet of the harbor boats and the shore sentinels on both sides, I was risking my life as a spy. While I do not remember to have been inspired with any feelings of the "lofty patriotism," I am surely conscious of the fact that my motives were certainly unselfish and disinterested. That there was no mercenary motive, may be inferred from the simple fact that I have not in these twenty-five years ever claimed or received anything from the government in the way of pecuniary reward for this trip.

I began at once to make practical application of the strategy, about which I had heard so much in the enemy's camp, and which Mr. Lossing, the historian, says: "As an artifice or scheme for deceiving the enemy in war, is regarded as honorable, and which is seldom if ever applied without the aid of the scout or spy's service."

A reference to a map of the northwestern part of Florida will, at a glance, indicate the relative positions of the Rebel and Union forces with far greater distinctness than I am able to describe, though, after an absence of twenty-five years, every point is as firmly impressed on my mind as if it were but a week since I saw it all, and I venture the assertion that, if permitted to revisit the scenes in Florida, I could locate with exactness the ground occupied by every battery at that time.

Of course it was out of the question to have attempted to cross the bay to Fort Pickens anyway near the batteries, or in proximity to the navy yard, because that portion of the water lying within range of the guns was being very closely "outlooked" all the time, both by the sentinels and officers with their glasses at each of the Forts. They had nothing else to do, so put in the long hours scrutinizing everything that made an appearance on the water. This part of the bay was also constantly patrolled by a number of guard or harbor boats, which were quite swift, well manned, and armed with what I think they called swivel guns, placed in the bow of the boat—a piece of artillery that may be best described as a cross between a Chesapeake bay duck gun and a howitzer.

I think, too, there were torpedoes placed in the channel, which they did not want disturbed by anything smaller than a United States man-of-war, if any such should venture to run past their batteries. I was not apprehensive of becoming mixed up with any of these myself, because my route would necessarily be some distance away.

The ships-of-war, which were anchored outside the harbor, had been detected by the Rebel guard boats in their attempts to run their small muffled gigs, as they called them, close to the shore batteries on dark nights. On several occasions these nighthawks came so close to each other in their patrols that the whispered voices of each could be heard over the water. This naval outpost, or picket duty on the water, was conducted pretty much the same as is the usage on a dark night in the woods—both sides being too much scared to move or speak lest the other should get the first shot, and mutually rejoiced when the sound died away in the distance.

The ships outside were being manœuvered or changed every day. Sometimes quite a fleet would be in sight, and the next morning half of them had disappeared. It was understood, of course, that, in attacking the fort, the men-of-war would at once come to the assistance of its garrison with their guns, but, if a battery could be placed on the island, the ships could be driven out of range of supporting distance, and, beside this, a storm would necessitate their all getting out to sea, so their assistance would be quite conditional.

This is why the government and naval officers especially desired not only to retain Fort Pickens, but as well to silence the Rebel batteries opposite, and to secure and retain that most excellent harbor and navy yard on the gulf, so convenient for future operations against Mobile and New Orleans.

My only hope was to cross to the Island, some six or eight miles above the Fort (Pickens) and nearly opposite the town of Pensacola, whence, under cover of the night, I might crawl down the shore on the opposite side to the Fort. This scheme necessitated a good bit of boating, as it would be necessary to double the route so as to get back before daylight. In looking about for a boat, and a colored oarsman whom I could control or depend upon to get me over and back, and then keep quiet until I could get away toward New Orleans or Mobile, I selected a black young fellow of about my own age, and in whose good-natured countenance I thought I could discover a willingness to do anything he was told. From this chap I engaged a boat for a day's fishing, it being well understood at the time that no boats of any kind were permitted to be out after dark. I had, however, taken particular pains to let it be known at the boat-house, where the boats were usually kept, that myself and a friend, who was well known there as a rebel above suspicion, were going together to take a boat for a lark, and they should not be at all uneasy if we tied up for the night some place above town. I had, of course, no intention of taking my friend along, and this was just a little bit of "strategy" to deceive the enemy.

I had, in the hearing of a number of his comrades, directed the boatman to prepare enough bait and other little requirements for this trip to last us until late into the night. He was a jolly, good-natured, bare-footed, ragged fellow, the blackest I could find, and was tickled all to pieces with the taffy and little bit of money he got in advance, as well as with a prospect for something extra, if he should be detained very late that night.

In an apparently indifferent way I also took occasion to mention at the house where I had been boarding, that I was obliged to leave for Texas, and made all my preparations accordingly, but proposed to have first a day's fishing in company with some friend, and might possibly spend the night with them. I didn't have any baggage to bother about, having merely stopped off while en route to Texas.

When I got into that little boat that day, I doubt not that I looked as if I were desperately intent on having a day's fun and was fully equipped for handling any quantity of fish. I had taken off my coat—the weather in Florida at that season being quite warm and pleasant—and as I sat in the stern sheets of the little boat, with a steering oar in my hand, dressed only in a collarless shirt, pants and shoes, with a greyish slouch hat tipped back on my head, I have no doubt that my appearance was at least sufficiently careless or indifferent to disarm any apprehensions that might rise as to the real object of the trip.

It was necessary, in starting, to explain that my "companion" was detained, but would join us at a friend's house some distance above the town later in the afternoon, in the direction of which I as steersman pointed the bow of the boat, as we pulled out from the shore, bearing purposely in a direction leading farthest from the Island and the Fort.

My recollection is, that it is about four miles across the bay to the Island and six or eight miles down the bay to the outside point on which Fort Pickens is located. With the exception of this garrison, Santa Rosa may, in the language of the school-books, be called an uninhabited island. At the present time, however, Geronimo and his band of murdering Apache Indians are, with their military guard, the only inhabitants of the desolate place, and they are prisoners.

When we had gotten out from shore a good distance, we stopped for a while, just to try our luck, but as it was not a satisfactory location, after a little delay, we moved further off, when we would again drop our little anchor, to go through the same motions and move out, just a little bit, almost imperceptibly to those on shore each time.

Of course, my colored boy had no idea but that I really meant this fishing excursion for sport. He was full of fun and really enjoyed himself very much. I was uneasy, and imagined that everybody on shore had conspired to watch our little boat, which was drifting about aimlessly on the tide, a mile or so out from the rebel shore. On account of this apprehension, I was more careful to so direct our movements that suspicion would be disarmed, and, as far as practicable, I kept the bow of the boat pointed in the direction of Pensacola, actually backing out into the stream, when the tide would naturally keep us out.

My object was to keep up this sort of an appearance all afternoon, and then toward dusk (as I had told the oarsman) we would land further up, where my friend was visiting, and where I had agreed to meet him.

A race over the bay to Fort Pickens with a Rebel harbor boat was out of the question, even with a mile of a start, because they were not only quite fast and well manned, but their little cannon were entirely "too sudden" and could soon overtake us.

Did we catch any fish? will be asked. No, this is not a fish story, and I was myself too intent upon watching the movements of all the little boats along shore to pay much attention to the fish; in this case I was the sucker myself, that was hunting a hole in the meshes of the net that I might escape.

I had put the latest New York Herald in my coat pocket during the morning; this I got out and, as I sat in the stern sheets, I pretended in a careless way to become interested while the colored boy did the fishing. Along in the evening, about sundown, I saw with some alarm one of the little tug-boats come puffing around from the navy yard, and it seemed in my imagination that they were bearing directly toward us, as we were then far enough from the shore to have excited suspicion. To be prepared, I directed the boy to take the oars and we made a movement as if intending to return.

The tug came within hailing distance and, without shutting off their noisy steam-exhaust, hallooed something which I inferred was the patrol officer's notice that it was time to tie up. They passed on in to the pier at Pensacola, while we in the deepening twilight, while seemingly headed toward shore, were silently drifting with the tide further and further away.

Being in the stern, with a steering oar in my hand, the colored boy at the oars, with his face toward me and his back to the bow, he did not discover for quite a while through the now almost darkness that we were moving out to sea instead of going in to shore, as I had pretended. When he did get the bearings through his sluggish brain, he seemed all at once to have become awakened to a sense of the greatest fear. He stopped rowing abruptly and, looking about him in every direction, his eyes seemed to become almost wild with fright, showing a good deal of white through the darkness that seemed now to have come down upon us all at once; he said, huskily, as he attempted to turn the boat around with one oar: "Good Lawd, it's dark, and all niggers got to be in doors 'fore this. Ise gwine home, boss." When I tried to laugh him out of his terror, and explained that I had told his master at the pier that I was going to keep him out late, it did not satisfy him. He insisted on going straight back over the course I had been leading all day. The poor slave said: "Boss, it's de law, any nigger caught out at night gets thirty-nine lashes; and if dese soger-masters knowed I was over on this side, dey kill me, suah."

We were then probably a mile off the Island shore—the darkness and distance had concealed us from the rebel shore, and I must not, would not return then. I tried every way to prevail upon this poor ignorant slave to keep on rowing; that I would steer him to "my friend's house," which, in my mind's eye, had been Fort Pickens, but he wouldn't have it so; he knew, he said, "there wasn't nobody's house up on dat shore."

Under the circumstances, what could I do? He had the oars in his hands but wouldn't use them, while I, with my steering-oar, was helpless. I was within but a little distance of the shore that I had looked upon so often and so wistfully from the rebel side, yet this fellow could prevent my reaching it; and in attempting to force him to do my bidding I risked making a disturbance which would speedily bring the guard-boats to the spot. I do not claim that it was a brave act at all, but, realizing at the time that I must take command of the boat, I quietly reached for a stilletto, or dirk knife, which I had bought in anticipation of having to use or show as a quiet sort of weapon where any noises were to be avoided. With this bright steel blade pointing at the now terrified darkey, I ordered him to row, and if he dared take a hand off the oar I'd cut him and feed the pieces to the sharks in the bay.

I don't know what I should have done if he had resisted, but I think that at the moment I would have become a murderer, and, if necessary, have used not only the knife, but also the pistol, which I had by me.

Seeing my determination, and especially the knife, the "contraband" laid back on his oars and pulled for the shore lustily, looking neither to the right nor the left, but keeping both his white eyes riveted on my dagger and pistol.

I comforted him a little, because, you see, I'd got to get back, and it was necessary that he should keep still until I got away. I knew he would do this, because it would certainly have been punishment for himself to have admitted that he had been over to the Yankees.

I'D CUT HIM AND FEED THE PIECES TO THE SHARKS.

Now that I had committed an overt act in this attempt to reach the enemy, the die was cast for me, and I must carry it through. Imagine for a moment my feelings when the boy stopped rowing suddenly and, craning his neck over to the water in a listening attitude, said, huskily, "Boss, dats dem; dats de boat."

Great heavens, we were yet a long distance out from the Island, having been gradually working down instead of going directly over. My first impulse was to row madly for the shore, but the darkey knew better than I, when he said, "Best keep still, and don't talk, boss." Listening again, I could hear the voices distinctly, and it seemed to me through the darkness that they were right upon us; we floated quietly as a log in the water for a few terrible moments of suspense, I took off my shoes and stockings and prepared to jump overboard and swim for the shore, if we came to close quarters. If they captured me I'd be hung, while the slave's life was safe, because he was valued at about $1,800.

Resuming his oar, the boy said, "That's at the navy yard." "Why," I said, "are we near the navy yard?" "No, boss; but you can hear people talkin' a mighty long ways at night; we niggers is used to hearin' 'em; we git chased in every night." After this scare I "hugged" the shore pretty close; it seemed to me then to have been a long ways down that sandy beach, because of the suspense and uncertainty, perhaps. We stole along quietly, not knowing but that some trap might have been set along the Island to catch any contrabands who might want to run off from their masters, and again I did not know but what the rebels themselves might have a guard out there; and if I did see any persons, how was I to be sure that they were friends from Fort Pickens.

There are some sensations that can better be imagined than described. To add to my discomfort on that most eventful night in my life, I witnessed for the first time the strange, weird phenomenon of the phosphorescent water, which is, I believe, quite common in the South. To me, at this time, it had almost a supernatural appearance.

While gliding along smoothly between life and death, my nerves strung to the utmost tension, suddenly I noticed that the oars, as they were lifted from the water, were covered with a strange gleam and that the water into which I was drifting had turned to molten lead, without flame; and as we went along now quite rapidly, there was left in our wake a long, winding, wiggling, fiery serpent which, to my heated imagination, seemed to be a machination of the devil and his imps to illuminate our path for the benefit of his friends—the rebels.

If a picture could be made of this scene, which, I may say, was dramatic, it should represent our dingy little boat moving along a desolate shore in the darkness and solitude of a midnight in Florida; the black oarsman, with open mouth, the whites of his eyes showing most conspicuously, as he twisted his head around to look over the water in the direction of the Rebels. I sat in the stern of the boat, dressed in a slouch hat and open shirt, steering-oar in hand, looking back and around in a puzzled way at the glimmering will-o'the-wisp trail in our wake. The distant background would show the grim walls of Fort Pickens, with a few vessels riding at anchor beyond.

On the other side would be the outlines of the Rebel batteries, with their sentries, while on the water, the guard or harbor boats.

My colored boatman, however, did not pay any attention to this play of light about our boat; grimly he dipped and lifted the oars, the blades covered with a peculiar yellowish light, while the water, as it dropped back into the sea, splashed and sparkled as I had seen molten metal in the molds of the foundries at home. In reply to my hushed expression of surprise, the boatman said: "O, dat ain't nothin'; it's the fire out of some of dem big guns, I'se lookin' aftah."

We silently crept along in this halo of light, during which time I took the opportunity to explain to my boatman that I was a Yankee soldier, going to the Fort to see my friends. The moment that fellow was assured of my true character his whole nature seemed changed, and, instead of the cowering, terrified slave, unwillingly doing the bidding of a master, he became a wide-awake, energetic friend, most anxious to do me all the service possible. I have forgotten the faithful boy's name, but I hope some day to revisit these scenes and shall look up his history.

Great Scott! While we were talking in this way, we were startled by the sound of oars regularly beating in a muffled way, and which we knew to our horror were coming in our direction. Could it be possible that we were to be baffled at last? The boy shifted his oars one by one into the boat, laid his head over the water for a moment, when he whispered, "Dats a barge." I did not know what a "barge" was, while he explained that the sounds of rowing we were hearing came from a large, regular crew of disciplined boatmen in a big boat called a barge.

I judged that we could not be far from Pickens, but how could I tell whether the approaching boat contained our friends or our enemies. We all knew that the boats of both parties were engaged in prowling about every dark night. I had heard, while in the Rebel camps, that it was the only diversion they had, and volunteers for each night's adventure were numerous.

We kept "hugging the Island" pretty tight, and, as the sounds grew closer and more distinct as they came nearer and nearer, I again prepared to jump overboard and swim for the island.

As they came closer, I heard the suppressed voices, and was able to catch something like an order addressed to "Coxswain," which was the only word I could make out—that was enough, however. I knew that a coxswain was only to be found in an armed boat, and, of course, I believed they must be from the navy yard.

I slipped off my shoes and quietly dropped over the side of the boat into the water, being mighty careful, too, that the boat should be between me and the sounds, which were now quite distinct.

The boatman laid down in the bottom of the boat while I held on by both hands and paddled or towed it toward shore. Suddenly, as if a curtain had been raised, the barge, like a picture on the screen of a magic lantern, appeared and faded away, thank the Lord, some distance out from us, and the crew were rowing silently but swiftly in the direction from which we had just come.

I crawled back into the boat, my extremities dripping, and with reckless determination ordered the fellow to row right straight ahead. I was sick of this miserable agony of suspense and would end it, even if we ran into a man-of-war.

The boatman expressed the opinion that the boat from which we had been concealing ourselves was from the Fort, or belonged to the shipping outside, and I afterward learned that he was correct.

When we got a little further down the island shore, voices were again heard, this time from the land. Now I was sure we were all right, but I kept along quietly and smoothly until we were in sight of the old fort. I could now see objects moving about on the ground near the fort. We crept up still closer, and seeing a group of three persons standing together, a little ways back from the water, I rose to my feet and was about to hail them when we heard oars again from the outside.

I sat down again and begged the poor fellow to row for his life, which he did with a hearty good will; we then passed, without a challenge, a sentinel on the beach, and actually rode right up to the guard on the pier of the fort, and myself called their attention to our little boat.

A sergeant, who was within hearing, quickly ran up to the water's edge and roughly called a "halt," demanding to know our business; to which I replied: "I want to see Lieutenant Slemmer." We drew in shore; the sergeant took hold of the bow-string of our boat, and directed a soldier near by to call the officer of the guard, which was done in the most approved West Point style. All the same, however, I had gotten through their lines without a challenge, and if I had been bent on torpedo or dynamite business, it would have been possible that night to have surprised the garrison.

While waiting there, the old sergeant, who seemed to be very much incensed at my cheekiness, in running by his sentries, plied us with questions.

Pretty soon we were landed on the pier, and then I stood right under the gloomy shadow of the walls of Fort Pickens, talking with a young officer in the uniform of the United States service, and wearing the red sash of the officer of the day.

This young officer, whose name I have forgotten, received me cordially, and ordered the sergeant to take good care of my boatman. My idea had been, all along, to communicate with Lieutenant Slemmer, whom we had heard of in connection with the occupation of the Fort, and probably, also, because I had heard he was a Pennsylvanian, I imagined I should feel more freedom with him.

The officer of the day, to whom I expressed a desire to see Lieutenant Slemmer, said: "Certainly, sir, certainly. Will you please give me your name?" I merely said: "I am from Pennsylvania, and am going back soon, and wanted to tell him some news." The officer swung himself around and called to another sergeant "to make this gentleman as comfortable as possible till I return," which was a polite way of saying "don't let that fellow get away till I get back." He disappeared inside the cave-like entrance to the Fort.

Very soon two officers came out, to whom I was politely introduced as a young man from the other side to see Lieutenant Slemmer—the officer of the day explaining to me that Lieutenant Slemmer would be out just as soon as he could dress.

It was late at night, and they had all been sleeping in peace and security inside the Fort, while I was getting down the bay. During this interim it will be noted that not one of these officers had asked me a question. Though their curiosity was no doubt excited, they were all gentlemanly enough to believe that my business was of a private character with Lieutenant Slemmer alone.

It appears that the Fort had been reinforced, probably about the time that the attempt was made to reinforce Sumter, and at this time Lieutenant Slemmer was not in command at Pickens.

During the wait and while we were talking about the war prospects, I incidentally mentioned something about Sumter's fall; this was news, sad news to the little group of officers, and for a moment seemed to stagger them. When one of them expressed a mild doubt, thinking my information was from rebel sources, the other said:

"Oh, yes, it's true; it couldn't be otherwise." When I gave them about the date, they all recalled an unusual commotion and firing of salutes by the rebels over the bay, which they did not understand at the time, and this news explained.

It soon became known in the fort that they had a visitor with great news, and every blessed officer must have gotten out of bed to come outside and see me. I wondered at the time why I wasn't invited inside, though I could not have been more courteously treated than I was. It was quite a long time before Lieutenant Slemmer made an appearance, and when he approached me and was introduced by the officer of the day with "This is Lieutenant Slemmer," I looked up in surprise to see a tall, slim man, wearing glasses and looking for all the world like a Presbyterian preacher. He was the most distant, dignified fellow in the lot, and my first impressions were not at all favorable.

However, I briefly explained my business, and told him of the masked batteries and the proposed attack from the island. Without a word of thanks, or even a reply, he turned and told one of the officers, who had stood aside to permit us to talk privately, to call Captain Clitz; and while he was doing this Mr. Slemmer stood by me with his arms folded—the only words he spoke were: "Oh, that's it."

Soon Captain Clitz, who was a large, rather portly officer, approached, in company with my officer, and, without waiting for an introduction, he walked up to me with his hand out, smilingly saying, "Ah, how do you do?" and, turning to Slemmer, he said, "Mr. Slemmer, I'm very glad your friend called to see us."

There was a long, earnest talk on the wharf that night, which was listened to and participated in by all the group of officers. Lieutenant Slemmer—after Captain Clitz's greeting—said: "This is Captain Clitz, the commander here now." And to him all my communications were directed.

I was, of course, questioned and cross-questioned in regard to every point of detail which could be of interest to them, and I believe I was able to satisfy them on every point.

I had understood, and believed it true, that General Winfield Scott had joined the rebels, and when I mentioned this among the other items of news, my young officer of the day spoke up quickly, saying: "Oh, no, I can't believe that. General Scott may be dead, but he is not a traitor."

In comparison with Lieutenant Slemmer's dignified bearing, Captain Clitz's kindness and cordiality to me that night will ever be remembered with feelings of profound gratitude. While I was thus talking to the officers, the sergeant and his detail of men were busily engaged in questioning my colored boy, and from him they learned the story of our trip.

The sergeant was brought to task roundly, by the officer of the day, for the failure of his sentinel up on the beach to halt our boat before getting so close to the pier. His explanation was that they saw us but supposed it was the boat belonging to the garrison.

How long I should have been detained on that old pier, under the shadow of the walls of the fort, entertaining those officers, is uncertain, had I not had before me, like a spectre, the remembrance of the rebel sentries and guard-boats, that I must again run through to get back in safety. One of the officers very kindly proposed that they would man one of their boats and convey us as far up the beach as they could go, and thereby relieve us of the tiresome pull on the oars. While this was being arranged, I gave to Lieutenant Slemmer a more detailed account of the honors that were being paid to him in the North, in connection with Major Anderson, for his bravery in saving Pickens. And I also told him about the attentions which were being showered upon his wife, who, it seems, had been permitted to pass through the Rebel lines to her home in the North soon after his moving into Fort Pickens.

To Mrs. Slemmer, it seems, was due some of the credit and glory of this movement.

After receiving from Captain Clitz his hearty acknowledgment, and a farewell shake-hands from all the officers, I got aboard the well-manned barge for a return voyage, our little boat being towed in the rear.

Getting into the boat seemed to bring to mind the shipping outside, and I incidentally asked if any of their boats might be going to Mobile soon, thinking that would save me the dangerous jaunt over the swamps. I had no fears but that I should land all right at Pensacola, but I did feel some apprehension about my boy being able to avert the questions that I knew he would be asked on his return.

Captain Clitz spoke up from the end of the pier, "There are no boats likely to go to Mobile, but one of the transports will return to New York soon; would you prefer to go that way?"

After a little explanation, it was settled that I should take the ship home, and my colored boy went back alone—at that time they were not taking care of contrabands—and I was rowed out to the shipping, and that night slept sweetly in a hammock on board Captain Porter's ship, the Powhattan.

CHAPTER V.

REBEL NEWSPAPERS—ON ADMIRAL PORTER'S SHIP.

While numerous newspaper attacks were being printed in the chivalrous press of the South concerning a defenseless boy who had succeeded, unaided and alone, in thwarting their plans to compel the surrender of Fort Pickens, I, in blissful ignorance of it all, was quietly experiencing the daily routine life aboard the blockading war ship, which was anchored in full view of the Rebel batteries through which I had been scouting but a few days previously.

I was, of course, something new and fresh on board the ship, and the way those chaps went for me was peculiar.

Did you ever try to get into a hammock? I mean a real hammock—one of those made out of canvas cloth, which, rolled up—or slung, I think they call it—looks like a big pudding.

I was put in charge of one of the petty officers, as they call them aboard a ship, who correspond to the non-commissioned officers of the army. My particular guardian was, I believe, the ship-chandler, an old salt who had charge of a little den of a room, somewhere between decks, which was crammed full of lamps or candles.

They were crowded with men and officers aboard the Powhattan at that time, so I had to turn in with this mess. I was given a hammock—a nice, clean lot of bedding was bundled up inside; it had a number painted on it, to which my attention was carefully called; then I was shown the corresponding number on deck where that particular hammock fitted in like a chink in a log-house, and where, I was told, it had to be placed at a certain "bell," or when the boatswain would sing out a certain call.

When the time came to go for the hammocks the first night, I followed my leader, shouldered the bag, and marched down in line with the rest. I found afterward the most difficult thing to learn about the navy is to get into a hammock, stretched above your head, and the next difficult thing is to stay in it, while the third trouble is to get out of it without lighting on your head.

My old guardian was busy somewhere with his lights, and when the signal came to turn in, every man of that immense crowd seemed to disappear, like so many prairie dogs into their holes, leaving me standing alone on the deck under my hammock. Then the petty officer, in his deep, bass voice, said something to me about clearing that deck. I made a jump for the thing, and hung half way across it, as if I were in a swing, able to get neither one way or the other—the hammock would move every time I'd move. Lots of bare heads were sticking out over the hammocks, offering advice of all sorts; one chap proposed to give me a leg, which I gratefully accepted, when he lifted me so quickly that I toppled over the other side of the hammock on to the floor, where I lay saying my evening prayers, while the whole lot of crows in the roosts above laughed at my predicament. The show was beginning to create so much noise down below that the fellow with the big voice was compelled to interfere and put a stop to it, which he did by ordering one of the men to hold my horse while I got aboard.

He kindly explained to me the modus operandi of getting into a slung hammock, which was, as we used to say in tactics, in one time and three motions; first, grab the thing in a certain way with two hands, put one foot in first, and then deftly lift the body up and drop in; once there, the difficulty was not over, as it required some practice to keep balanced while asleep, especially to a landsman like myself. I was cautioned to part my hair in the middle, and lie there as stiff as a corpse.

It was great fun for the sailors of that mess. In the morning, after a fair night's rest, I was awakened by the man-of-war's reveille, and literally tumbled out of the hammock, landing on all fours on deck, for the thing was as hard to get out of as it was to get into. But now the sailors, who had so much fun at my expense the night before, showed the greatest kindness and did what they could to teach me to strap or lash it up, and I was ready to take up my bed and walk with the rest of them, and stored it away while it did not yet seem to be daylight.

I was invited to the best mess for breakfast, which I was able to enjoy very much, and I spent the greater portion of the day on the big wheel-house of the ship, pointing out to the officers the location of the different batteries in the rebel line. The officers were quite courteous and kind, and, as may be imagined, listened with the greatest eagerness to the news which I was able to give them. The New York Herald, which was the only thing in the shape of "papers" that I had brought with me, was eagerly read, the officers almost quarreling for its possession. It was finally settled by their cutting it up and dividing the pieces around.

The Powhattan was one of the largest vessels of the old-fashioned side-wheel class, and at that time was literally bristling with her armour, having been hurriedly fitted out at Brooklyn Navy Yard at about the same time the other vessels sailed to the intended relief of Sumter.

An old salt gave me his account of their trip out, which, as nearly as I can recollect, was something like this:

"We had just returned from a cruise, ye know, to China, and wanted to stay home a bit, because the Engineer Board condemned one of our boilers as dangerous, so, of course, no one aboard thought of going to sea again in her. Well, by thunder, one night they sent a draft of men aboard, and the next morning we were steaming out somewhere—we all thought to some other yard.

"The officers had what they called sealed orders, not to be opened till we were outside, don't you know. That black-whiskered chap"—pointing with his thumb toward Captain Porter's cabin—"was aboard, and we all thought he was our sky pilot, as he was dressed just like a parson or chaplain; but when we got out, and the orders were opened, he had changed his black duds, and, by gad, he took us in tow, just like a pirate king, and fetched us all down to this blasted hole to die of Yaller Jack.

"On the voyage down, every man of us was worked to death; day and night, all hands were going, unpacking boxes of arms that had been smuggled aboard, and them brass things you see back of the purser's 'cow-house'"—as he called the wheel-house—"we boxed up like dead men in coffins. Well, some of the men swore we were turned pirates; and a lot more of us was dead sure we were going out as a privateer for Jeff Davis. You see the sealed orders was to Captain Porter, and he had just come aboard at night, and they say he came right over from Washington City that same day, and, of course, he knew what was up, but no one else did.

"We found out, though, after that. The plan for us was to run down and go right straight ahead into the harbor, past the Fort and them Rebel Batteries. If we was inside once, we could drive them off and get the navy yard, you know, and they couldn't get onto the Island, don't you know. Well, when we got near Pensacola, what did they do but begin to burn some soft English coal, what was stored aboard, so's to make a black smoke, don't you see, and make them Rebels believe we were an Englishman going to Pensacola. Well, Porter was on hand, you bet, and every other fellow was on hand, too, and we were going to run right straight by the derned Batteries, without stopping or showing our colors; but the 'Old Man,' as we termed the admiral, or Senior Officer Alden, who had preceded us, as soon as we came up signaled to drop anchor; and the Lord only knows how long we will stay, if that condemned boiler don't bust.

"The old black-whiskered parson was mad, because he didn't get to go ahead, and he mopes in his den all the time, just like a bear with a sore head, cross at us all, as if we was to blame."

Rear-Admiral David D. Porter was, at that time, ranking as a lieutenant in the navy, though he had been selected specially by Mr. Lincoln to command the Powhattan on this relief expedition. As I saw him daily aboard his ship, he appeared, to my eyes, to be a hearty, blustering, handsome naval officer, in the prime of life, wearing a full, black beard, which, with his sharp eyes and commanding presence, impressed me with the idea that the old tar had suggested, as being a model pirate chief.

Those who have not been aboard a man-of-war while in commission and engaged in actual sea service, and have formed their impressions from casual visits to a ship in port, would scarcely realize the changed condition of affairs. The captain is a little king, with absolute power, and lives in great style, all by himself, in his beautiful den of a cabin, at the extreme aft-end of the ship. He never comes forward, I believe, and walks only on one side of the deck. I think he doesn't permit anyone to approach his highness, except through the regular channels.

He may be a good fellow ashore and will eat and drink with you at the hotel bars, like any ordinary bit of humanity; but dear me, aboard his ship he is a holy terror.

Not being an enlisted man myself, and only a sort of a refugee aboard ship, wholly unacquainted with the new order of things, I was constantly doing something or other that interfered with the rules, and, as a consequence, was an object of disgust to the minor officers and, I suspect, a source of amusement to a great many others.

Naval officers, I understand, never like to have a civilian aboard their ships, probably because they are not amenable to the strict discipline, and another reason is, that a common landsman does not pay that homage and respect to their rank that is exacted of the seaman.

As I was promenading up and down the deck the first morning, an officer, whom I was told was Lieutenant Perry, the executive officer, sent one of the smartly-dressed marines to me, who approached pleasantly and said:

"The executive officer directs that you will please walk on the port side of the deck." Well, I looked at my feet, then at the grinning marine, and asked him what was the matter. I didn't know there was such a thing as a port side of a deck; but he explained that the one little place where I had been taking my morning air was reserved exclusively for the captain of the ship.

The captain sent his orderly to escort me to his presence in his cabin; the marine was, of course, all fixed up with his natty uniform, white-crossed belts, and little sword, and as we approached the lion's den, he knocked as if he were afraid somebody might hear him, and when a gruff voice within sang out "Come!" he stiffened up as if he had heard an order to "present"; then swinging open the door, swung around briskly and saluted; and before he could say his little speech, the captain spoke up:

"That will do, Orderly," when he went through the same motions as when we entered, and left me alone with the bear.

The captain astonished me by reaching for my hand, and, gently pushing me over to a huge sofa, sat down beside me, and began to talk in a most cordial manner about my adventure at Montgomery and Pensacola, which lasted quite a little while, and ended with an invitation to take something, which I was forced to decline.

My interview with the captain seemed to have a wonderful influence not only on the minds, but over the actions as well, of the petty officers and sailors, who had been guying me so mercilessly every hour of my stay among them. I was at once treated with the utmost consideration by everybody on board, and it appeared to me that every old salt, who wore a piping whistle at the end of a white cord about his neck, was anxious to talk with me in confidence.

To excite the curiosity of a lot of old sailors aboard ship is like bringing a swarm of mosquitoes about one's head; and the way I was pestered with questions and cross-questions, as well as all sorts of surmises and hints, would distract any one, excepting, perhaps, the well-seasoned and tanned hides of their own kind.

Captain Porter is the only man on board the ship to whom I told my story, though questioned in a gentlemanly manner by the other officers. I was able to hold and keep my own counsel from them all. I was to them a refugee, and that was all the satisfaction any of them got from me, except that in a general way I was free to tell anybody all I knew about the Rebel batteries and forces; but why I had gone to Pickens was explained only to Captain Porter, who believed my story, from the interview with Secretary of War Cameron down to getting aboard his ship. Though I had nothing whatever to show as proof, having brought with me to the ship only the rather scanty clothing I wore, having almost stripped myself in anticipation of a swim for life while crossing the bay.

Right here I may mention that my family preserves with the greatest care a sailor shirt, on which is an elaborately embroidered star in colors, in each corner of the broad silk collar, also a pair of white duck sailor trousers. These useful as well as beautiful articles were presented to me by some of the men aboard ship, for which present, I have often thought since, I must have been indebted to Captain Porter's influence, as the articles are of such value that the old fellow who stowed them in my hammock would scarcely have parted with them without some remuneration.

The needlework on these articles was all done aboard ship by the stiffened and well-hardened fingers of an old sailor, and I do not exaggerate in saying, for rare and delicate workmanship, they are not excelled by anything I have seen in the same line since.

The monotony of life aboard ship was relieved somewhat by the every-day drill of the marines, under command of Lieutenant Broome, whose name I remember distinctly, as being associated in my mind with "a new broom," he always looked so sleek and nice in his fresh uniform. The sailors were also drilled at the big guns, fore and aft, which they would pull and haul about for hours at a time under the commands of some officer.

One day Captain Porter astonished the Rebels, as well as our own officers, by a mock naval battle. At a certain hour and upon a given signal, all hands were called to quarters unexpectedly, Captain Porter appearing on the bridge with an immense big brass trumpet in his hands, through which he bellowed out something which everybody but me seemed to understand. Men went up the rigging like a lot of monkeys in trees; others yanked out the big cutlasses. At the command, "Repel boarders!" they would climb up the sides of the ship and cut and slash their invisible enemies at a dreadful rate. Then suddenly an order came to load the guns; and in an instant almost, men whom I had not seen popped up out of the holds and handed to others, who had evidently been expecting them, cartridges, which were rammed into the big mouths of the cannons; then all stood still as death—but for an instant only—when the brass trumpet belched out something about a "Broadside," and—Great Scott! it makes me tremble while I write about it—every gun on that big ship, great and small, went off at the same time, and almost lifted the ship out of the water.

They kept firing and loading in this way for quite a little while, Captain Porter, during this time, standing quietly and unconcernedly on the bridge, with his watch in one hand and the trumpet in the other. When he was ready, another order was fired through his telephone, and the firing ceased as suddenly as it had begun.

During all this hubbub, when every fellow had a place to go and stay, I was jumping around from one place to another, like a hen on a hot griddle, trying to find some spot where I might not be in anybody's way. When the firing ceased, the ship was rolling about and, as we were encompassed by the smoke, it seemed as if we were sailing in a cloud in mid air.

Captain Porter, from his position on the bridge, began at once to catechize the different officers, precisely as a school-master would a class, asking each in turn, as he pointed to him:

"How many rounds, Mr. Broome?" And if the answer was not satisfactory, an explanation was demanded. I remember that the assistant engineer's position was at the little brass pieces, elevated abaft the wheel-house, and their work was not at all satisfactory to Captain Porter, who did not hesitate to so express himself, much to the disgust of the engineers and the amusement of the other officers.

When the cloud of smoke lifted and we could see over the water, we found all the other ships of the squadron watching us, while the ramparts of Fort Pickens was to be seen crowded with men, no doubt wondering what was up. They, no doubt, supposed the ship's magazine was afire. The Rebel Batteries were black with men, who imagined, of course, that the ship was fighting some of their own craft.

It appeared afterward that this trick of Captain Porter's came very near bringing on a conflict with the Rebs, as they prepared to open their batteries on the fort. If the drill had continued a little longer it would have resulted in bringing about a genuine fight. Perhaps this is what Captain Porter desired.

There was some influence that fretted him very much at the time, which I have never heard explained. It was well known that he was most eager for the fight to begin.

Early one bright morning our lookout spluttered out something, to which the officer on deck at the time—who was Lieutenant Queen, at present commandant at the Washington Navy Yard, and to whom I was talking at that instant—startled me by singing in my ear:

"Where away?"

The fellow above said something about two points on our port bow.

Mr. Queen left me abruptly to report to the captain, who soon appeared on deck. I climbed up to a good place from which to look out, and gazed in the direction in which Mr. Queen and the captain were pointing, but failed to see anything myself.

Orders were issued to prepare a little boat that was attached to the Powhattan, as a sort of dispatch boat, and an officer, whose name was Brown—a fat, jolly young man whom Captain Porter seemed to think highly of—was put in charge.

This little craft hoisted sail and went dancing about on the water like a sea-bird. By this time two steamers were in sight, approaching us.

Who they were and what they were after was just what everybody wanted to know; the old sailors, who are always croakers, had any quantity of ridiculous stories about their errand and our rapidly approaching fate.

Signals went up on Fort Pickens, and I discovered, first, that signals were being made from the Rebel Batteries, in rear of their Forts, and reported the fact, the circumstance awaking in Captain Porter a lively interest.

Tho little sea-bird, with Mr. Brown, went out toward the approaching ships, as if to meet them; orders were given by somebody, I suppose, but I failed to hear them, to weigh anchor, which was quietly done; then, instead of the ships halting to communicate with Mr. Brown's signals, they went nearer to the Rebel Batteries, while the black smoke poured out of the chimneys, and the paddle-wheels whirled around.

All at once I jumped two feet high, because a gun behind me went off. Still the wheels went round and round, and the water was foaming in their wake. All hands and eyes were on the ship in the lead, when boom went another gun; and there is where I saw the first hostile gun fired. There was a splash in the water some distance this side of the ship, but in her front, then another splash on the same line further on; this was the first shot across her bow, and it had the immediate effect of stopping those paddle-wheels as suddenly as if she had been hit in the belly.

She "hove too"—there was a long confab with the captain of the boat, which turned out to be ships from Mobile bound to Pensacola with supplies—appealed from Porter to the old admiral, and the end of it all was, the two boats loaded with supplies and probably ammunition, were not permitted to go on past the Fort inside the bay to Pensacola, as Captain Porter decidedly protested against it, and they were escorted back to Mobile.

They were not war ships, and at that time some of our officers had peculiar ideas of the rights of Rebels: as, for instance, the refusal to allow my colored boy, Friday, to remain at the Fort because he was property, etc.

In our mess I think there were four of as jolly, good-hearted tars as may be found in any navy, who vied with each other in their efforts to make my stay with them as comfortable as possible. I presume my popularity was increased a little bit, from the fact that I really couldn't swallow the gill of grog, nor use tobacco, that was issued to every one who wanted it, and my portion was scrupulously drawn and assigned to our mess.

I was here first introduced to sea biscuit, which you know is the naval term of S. O. B. Every old soldier will know the meaning of those cabalistic letters.

One fellow, who was so droll that he kept the mess in a roar all the time, insisted that some of the sea biscuit then being issued by the commissary had been left over from the Revolutionary War. They were really as hard as a board; it was often as good as a show to watch the antics of Jack trying to weld them, like iron, at the galley range, or to put them under the rollers of the big cannon for a chuck stone.

The pickled pork he declared was alive with worms, and insisted upon taking me up the main mast, to prove to me that great chunks of it were able to crawl up the polished mast to the fore-top. While eating our grub (as they call it), when the cook had prepared a particularly nice dish of scouce (I think that's the way it's spelled), Jack would pretend to be so hungry that he and another chum would get on all fours and squeal for all the world like a lot of hogs in a pen.

Every day there would be signals exchanged between our ship and the others, or with Fort Pickens, and occasionally boats from the other vessels would come to our side bringing officers to visit our officers.

For some days my daily life was spent in this way. I began to imagine, from some of the yarns that I was compelled to overhear from the sailors at night, that something was going wrong with me; nothing had been intimated to me directly by any of the officers, who were uniformly courteous, excepting, perhaps, Lieutenant Perry, the executive officer who had general charge of everything. On another occasion he had picked me up sharply for daring to handle a marine glass that I saw on the bridge one day and elevated toward the Rebels.

The sailors, who, of course went with the boats to the fort as oarsmen, must have brought back some exaggerated stories about me, judging from their actions and talk. If any of those who may read my story have ever been compelled to listen to old sailors' or old soldiers' stories and croakings, they will be able to sympathize with me in my misery. I can think of no comparison that will approach so near my conception of the situation as that of being caged in an insane asylum with a crowd of cranky old lunatics, and being compelled to hear all they have to say without being able to escape from the horror.

This Lieutenant Perry was, I believe, a nephew of Commodore Perry, of Lake Erie fame, and perhaps a very capable officer, though I do not recall having heard his name during the war, which followed so closely. He was evidently prejudiced against me from the first day, probably because I declined to be interviewed by him.

One day I was surprised by having him call me aside and commencing a conversation about the war, during which I expressed some decided opinions about the earnestness and sincerity of the Rebels. And I probably gave vent to my disgust at the permitting my colored boy to be sent back to slavery and possibly punishment.

A short time after this I was invited to the captain's cabin. On entering, I found Mr. Perry and the captain in consultation. After a pleasant greeting, Captain Porter said:

"We have just learned that the Rebels have a lot of big guns at Montgomery which they are to send to Pensacola." When he got this far, I interrupted him to say, "That is hardly correct, as I had been in Montgomery, and they had no guns of any kind there." Perry spoke up and said they meant Mobile. Porter continued, smilingly: "Yes, it's Mobile, of course. Well, we want to spike those guns right there." Not for a moment thinking they were putting up a job on me, I looked anxiously in Porter's face for a clue to his meaning, in thus talking to me. Looking me squarely in the eye, he said:

"Now the government pays handsomely for this service," patting his pants pockets to make some keys rattle. Still I did not like the appearance of things, and perhaps too abruptly interrupted to say:

"Yes, I know; but the Rebels aren't going to let any one do that."

Then ensued a long confab, in which Lieutenant Perry did most of the talking.

Captain Porter finally said to me, with a peculiar look:

"Now I have some little file-shaped things, just made for that purpose; all a man has to do is to quietly drop one of these into the vent, and they don't even know it's there, till they want to fire the gun."

This looked plausible, and I began to feel as if I'd like to try that simple little trick, but I told him candidly that I couldn't undertake it; that they would surely hang me, if caught; and that it wouldn't be well for me to run the risk just then.

"Oh," says Perry, "we will man a boat and land you on the beach ten miles from Pensacola."

"Yes," spoke up Captain Porter, "we will put you ashore any place you want to go."

Without a moment's thought, except a desire to do any service for my country, I said to them, "All right, I'll go."

I knew nothing whatever at this time of the demands that were being made by the rebel authorities upon the Fort to have me surrendered on a civil process, and on the same general principles that had induced the Fort officers to return the colored boy, was being brought to bear in my case. It seems the officers of the Fort got rid of the knotty point by informing the Rebel flag-of-truce boat that I was out of their control, and in the hands of the naval authorities.

Application had been made to the flag-ship of the squadron, that being the proper headquarters, but it seems that in some way Captain Porter's instructions were direct and more recent than had been received by the admiral, whose name, if I remember aright, was Adams or Alden; but of this I am not positive. However, there was some sort of a conflict of authority between Porter and the Admiral, and not altogether a cordial feeling between them, as there were no visits or courtesies being exchanged between them, as was customary in such situations.

I had myself seen from the deck of the Powhattan a little tug-boat bobbing out to the Admiral's ship, but had no idea, of course, that I was being the subject of negotiations, which were being carried on by the opposing forces through their flags-of-truce.

The Admiral, who had desired the ships from Mobile to pass in unmolested, was quite indifferent to my fate, and did not deign to communicate with Mr. Porter or myself. No doubt if I had been aboard his ship instead of Admiral Porter's, the true story of this episode would never have been written; as I should have been surrendered, as a matter of courtesy to the Rebels, who would have further extended the courtesy—at the end of a rope.

CHAPTER VI.

ADMIRAL PORTER SAVES THE BOY'S LIFE—INTERVIEW WITH THE REBEL FLAG-OF-TRUCE OFFICERS, WHO CLAIM HIM FOR A VICTIM—SCENES ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR—RETURN HOME BY SEA—RECEPTION IN NEW YORK—TELEGRAPH ACQUAINTANCES—NEW YORK PAPERS RECORD THE ADVENTURE IN FULL PAGE.

It will be seen that the Admiral was willing that I should be surrendered, and my life hung for several days in a balance, which, thank God, was held by Captain Porter.

Perry, knowing of these negotiations, was himself convinced that I was a Rebel Spy, whom they wanted to get back, and had kept a close watch on my actions; and, I presume, had set half the ship's crew to pick me up on any little circumstance which would serve to confirm his suspicions that I was in the service of the rebellion.

One day I was sitting on the "back stairs," or on the platform of the gangway aft the wheel-house, and, as the vessel had swung round, I could, from my location, see right over the water to the rebel lines. My position happened to be somewhat secluded, and I had in my hands a scrap of an old New York Ledger, that one of the tars had loaned me. I saw that I was being watched by Perry, who was in quiet consultation with the officer of the deck. A marine with a loaded musket had been ordered to look sharp that I did not fly over to the Rebs, I suppose.

While in this situation the thought burst upon me that I was a prisoner, suspected by my own friends of being a spy in their camp.

The interview that I had had in the cabin, with Captain Porter and Lieutenant Perry, the proposed trip to Mobile, with a dozen other little incidents, rushed through my brain at once, but I was comforted by the thought that the War Department would acknowledge my services. After this feeling had passed away from my mind to some extent, I recalled with bitterness some of Lieutenant Perry's actions and talks with me. Carelessly glancing around to see that he was still on deck, I wrote on the margin of that old paper some words that expressed, in language more emphatic than politic, the opinion I entertained of a certain officer, and whose conduct I should take care would be reported to the ears of the Navy Department. Before I had finished, a hand was laid on my shoulder; another reached down and snatched the paper from my hand; the young officer, whom I had seen talking to Perry but a few moments previously, said:

"Ah, sketching, are you?" as he took the paper and handed it to Mr. Perry, who was at his back, and he read with a flushed face the ugly comments on his brutality to a boy prisoner, who had done more for his country in one night than he would accomplish in his life-time.

"AH! SKETCHING, ARE YOU?"

For a boy, this was a pretty sharp trick, if it were not very discreet. Mr. Perry roughly said, as I put my hands in my pockets and looked at him defiantly:

"Take your hands out of your pockets when you talk to an officer, damn you!" "Go forward, sir!" "Don't you come aft again!"

Mr. Perry, as the executive officer, had the control and management of almost every detail aboard ship; and, of course, after his ridiculous failure to catch me mapping, or sketching, which had become known all over the ship, he entertained for me more positive and open dislike than ever, so that I was henceforth, practically, his prisoner. I had enjoyed full liberty to go about everywhere as I pleased, heretofore, and lounged or lay about in the warm sun most of the time up by the wheel-house; but now I understood that, by his arbitrary orders, I was not to be allowed to go aft; which I interpreted to mean confinement to the forecastle.

This was not so pleasant for me, as I could have no communication with the officers, and lost the opportunity of seeing the marine drill, which was a daily performance, that seemed to relieve the monotony of our every-day life, which was indeed becoming quite tiresome to me.

However, I consoled myself with the reflection that I should soon be able to get away to my home in the North. There had been a transport in the squadron unloading supplies, which I had been given to understand would take me off on her return to New York. I watched with eager interest the unloading of this transport, which had to be tediously and drudgingly performed by the use of lighters and pulleys over the ship's side;—the rebs objected, you know, to our forces using the Fort's piers, which was within range of their guns, though it will be recalled that our Admiral did not prevent their ships going into the harbor to unload their supplies.

I think it must have been some of Billy Wilson's Zouaves, or their supplies, that were being unloaded. You will remember that about this time that regiment of the roughs and toughs of New York City had been sent down there, where they were permitted to encamp on the Island, between the fires of the two forces; being natural enemies of both, communication with them was necessarily limited.

Early one morning, one of the petty officers shook me out of the hammock, saying:

"Bundle up quickly, to go aboard the transport."

If I didn't get out of the hammock that morning very gracefully, it was because it was done suddenly. The man who called me stood by, as he said, to help me get ready, as the ship was to sail at daylight. I had no bag for my luggage, which consisted only of the gifts of the fine sailor suit, mentioned heretofore, and what I wore on my person, so we were not long in getting ready.

Hurrying up on deck, I went to the gangway aft, where the little gig, as they call the little boat, was bobbing up and down on the swell, as the waves beat against the ship's side. The sailor standing in the bow, holding on to the steps, or rope balustrade, helped me to make the little jump into the boat, which I felt was dancing with delight because it was to take me off that old ship.

As I passed to the rear seat, each old tar had a kind word of good-by for me, and I believe that I promised every one of them to go and see their friends and sweethearts when I should get home. We waited awhile for an officer who was getting the captain's mail ready. Soon Lieutenant Queen came down the steps and scrambled to a seat beside me, saying, pleasantly:

"Well, my boy, I wish I were going with you this morning."

He gave the order to let go and soon we were bouncing over the water toward the transport, which was smoking and hissing away at a great rate some distance from our ship but nearer the shore. When we pulled alongside I braced myself for the climb up her side, when Lieutenant Queen should give the signal. He had gone aboard ahead and delayed sometime; presently he appeared at the ship's side and began to descend to our boat again; I thought his manner a little queer, as I watched him with astonishment; once in the boat, he was about to give the order to pull off, when the captain of the transport hailed him and said:

"I'm sorry, but don't you forget to tell Porter it's not my fault."

After a little further talk in an undertone, Mr. Queen told the coxswain to go ahead, and then turning to me said:

"There's some mistake, they say they can't take you, they have no room."

My feelings may be imagined—they can not be described. I was so disappointed that I was literally struck dumb, and could not speak a word on our return to the ship, and was led aboard by the good-hearted old sailors as if I had just been rescued from a watery grave.

Going to our ship's side, I looked over the water in the early grey of the morning and saw the transport, on which I had built my every hope of home, slowly but surely steaming away toward home, and I still on the ship and a prisoner. How long I stood there I do not know; probably until the fast-sailing transport had almost gotten out of my dimmed sight. I cried, of course I did, like a big baby, and on board a man-of-war, too; and being too proud to show it, I kept my face resolutely set toward the receding ship that was going home without me.

I didn't even have such a thing as a handkerchief to dry those tears, bitter tears, which would run down my cheeks and drop into the sea below me.

Mr. Queen, who had reported his trip to Captain Porter, hunted me up to say that "the captain would see that I was taken care of and sent home all right."

Speaking in his kindly, sympathetic manner, seemed to renew my emotion, and turning my wet cheeks to him I said, I fear somewhat harshly, "I'll never again undertake anything that would get me aboard a naval officer's ship."

He laughed good-naturedly, while he told me of his many disappointments in not getting home from foreign countries, as he had planned, while in the naval service. He said also that Captain Porter was mad about it, because some one seemed determined to interfere with everything or anything he wanted to accomplish, but he would fix me all right next time, and, pointing to another transport, he said:

"You will go on that ship in a few days."

Some of the talks and hints which the old sailors had been firing at me for days about a Rebel Spy, sent aboard to fire their magazine, or to signal to the Rebels any attempt to run inside, and which I had taken at the time as sailors' yarns, were now vividly recalled to my mind. These things, coupled with the recent interview between Porter, Perry and myself, in which I had been entrapped into an agreement to return through their lines to spike some guns, all came upon me with a sickening sensation.

I had been led by the talk of Perry, against my own judgment, and doubting the feasibility of his plans, to agree that I should put ashore alone, in a dismal swamp in Florida, ten miles from everything living but alligators and snakes, in the dark of midnight, to find my way across to Mobile to spike some guns.

Because I was willing to do anything for the benefit of the Union cause, not having a single thought of fear or danger to myself, this disposition had been twisted and tortured by Mr. Perry, a United States officer, into a virtual acknowledgment on my part that I was a Rebel and was anxious to return to their camps.

I do not believe that Captain Porter agreed with Perry in this conclusion.

If the object of these Rebels in their negotiation was to throw discredit on my reports of their operations and plans—which they knew I could correctly give—they succeeded only in the sense that I was personally discredited. The officers at the Fort were grateful and glad to receive my information. I know they were benefited by and acted upon it; but the poor spy who enabled them to save their Fort, or at least prevent disaster, was ignored. The officers, no doubt, took great credit to themselves in their official reports.

I may be allowed to say right here that the spy's work, though often most dangerous and important, is always thankless. That was my experience at the outset of my career, but (unfortunately for me perhaps) did not deter me from continuing in the same service.

I made up my mind to one thing, however; I stuck to it, and I was never caught on board a man-of-war again, but confined my operations to solid ground, where I could have more room and freedom, and be my own executive officer.

The next day on board the ship was Sunday, and an eventful one to me. As is customary aboard a man-of-war, it was inspection day. All soldiers and sailors know what a Sunday inspection is, so I need not describe it.

At a certain hour I was invited aft, with the drove of a crew—to "Meetin'," as the sailor said. All hands were congregated about the deck according to a drill, which all understood, at a certain moment the officer of the deck stepped to the captain's door and, after saluting in the proper manner, invited the parson to the pulpit.

Captain Porter in full regimentals marched out in grand style, taking up his position, and gravely opened a book from which he read some prayers as effectively as a clergyman, after which there were orders read, and a dismissal for a general holiday—relief from drill and routine work for the balance of the day.

This was the first time I had been permitted to look at the captain since my disappointment, and I most eagerly scanned his face for some indication of his feeling toward me; once or twice I caught his eye, but I found little comfort there. He was a fierce-looking fellow, and particularly so when fixed up in his Sunday toggery.

The other ships of the squadron, as well as the fort and the Rebels, seemed to be putting on their best attire and were feeling comfortable in their Sunday dress.

Inside the harbor, the Rebels seemed to be enjoying Sunday excursions with their little boats; the officers on the ships and the fort were exchanging friendly visits.

I had, as a special Sunday privilege, I suppose, been told to resume the freedom of the ship as at first, and was lounging in my haunt above, where I could see all about us.

Along some time in the afternoon I noticed a little steam-tug steam out past Fort Pickens, puffing and dancing along in the direction of the admiral's flag-ship. The striking peculiarity about the little boat was, that at her bow she floated a white flag, not larger than a bathing towel, while on the rear staff were flaunted the Rebel colors.

My curiosity having been greatly excited by the sailors' talks of flags-of-truce to the fort, in which I was in some unknown way connected by them, I watched with intense interest every movement this little craft made; she came on, dancing along between the shore and the squadron until the flag-ship was almost abreast of her, then suddenly turning, the fluttering white flag pointed directly to the admiral's ship, and was lost to my sight behind her great sides.

Others on board were watching this also, and I could see that the glances of the men would turn significantly from the little truce boat to me.

Mr. Queen had gone off visiting, but Mr. Perry was on hand, sullen and disagreeable.

They stopped so long aboard the Admiral's ship that one of the younger officers ventured to say to me in a side whisper, feeling perhaps that I needed some comfort: "Oh, they are just over for a Sunday visit to the Admiral," and then walked briskly away from me as if afraid of being seen by Perry talking to the Rebel Spy.

He had scarcely turned away from me when, on looking in the direction of the flag-ship, I saw the white flag come bobbing out from under the stern of the big ship. Were they going back to their Rebel camps? No! they were bearing straight down on us, while they were waving adieus to the officers, who were looking over the bulwarks of the ship they had just quitted.

Great God! my heart sank within me at the thought that they were after me again, and the old Admiral had sent them to Captain Porter, with orders to give me up.

I reckon I turned pale. I know that I felt that I would die in the water beneath me before I would return with them to the Rebel lines. I was a boy of strong impulse, and, if I must say it myself, I was not afraid of death; but I determined in the instant I stood there watching that boat come toward us so saucily that I would die rather than return with them.

The slightest provocation at that time would have made me leap overboard. Luckily for me, the young officer who had spoken to me but a few moments previously, ran rapidly up the few steps and called me quickly to him, saying:

"Captain wants you in his cabin, right away."

I nervously followed him, and as he opened the cabin door I stepped inside and saw Captain Porter in the act of buckling on his sword belt; his face was strangely flushed, and, as he adjusted his sword into its proper position at his side, and buttoned up his coat, turned sharply on me, saying, as he shook his head significantly:

"Young fellow, that boat is coming after you; do you know that?"

I don't know just what I did reply, I was so stunned for a moment, but the gallant, glorious old loyal son of the navy put the answer into my head.

"You claim our protection, don't you."

"Yes, I do. I'll go overboard Captain, but I'll not return to the Rebel lines."

"You don't need to. You have claimed my protection; you are a boy away from home and among enemies; you are in my charge."

I tried to thank him, but he stopped me abruptly, saying:

"Never mind; you claim our protection, and, by God, you shall have it."

With this he glared out of his little window like a wild beast in a cage, and I backed out of his presence with a heart overflowing with thankfulness and gratitude, rejoiced that I had found one officer who would use his authority to protect American citizens; who sought the good of the country and the protection of our flag.

I went back to my perch just in time to see the white flag run under our bow, and, looking down over the ship's side, I could see the tug was filled with Rebel officers.

The officer of the deck received them courteously, and, after reporting to Mr. Perry, they were invited aboard. Mr. Perry was most affable and pleasant with them, as were, in fact, all the officers, and the Rebels themselves seemed to be as jolly as if they were out for a frolic. There was nothing in their manner or bearing toward each other that would lead anyone to infer there was any prospect of a war.

After the preliminary courtesies had been exchanged, a couple of them went into the captain's Cabin; what occurred there I never learned; the interview, however, was a mighty short one; the Rebel emissaries came out and without any further parley got aboard their flag-of-truce boat and steered for their sand-banks.

I have a recollection of reading in our school histories an account of one of our naval officers, while in an Austrian port, giving some such protection to a naturalized citizen of the United States, and great credit attached to this act; perhaps, I am prejudiced, but I doubt very much if that officer did as grand and heroic an act as that of Captain Porter in protecting a boy from the shabby, cowardly attempt of traitors in arms against his flag, aided by the more contemptible conduct of our own officers who were his superiors.

It required the nerve which subsequent events showed Captain Porter to possess, and his name and deeds are everywhere recognized while that of his superior, the Admiral, has been lost.

During the ten days I was anchored off Fort Pickens on board the man-of-war Powhattan my enforced sojourn may be likened to that of a "fish out of water."

In compelling an ignorant slave boatman to row me over the bay in the cover of the night to Fort Pickens with this valuable information, I was, according to law, as it was interpreted technically, guilty of a threat or attempt to kill. This, with the fact that the slave, like the boat and oar, was "property," added robbery to the indictment prepared against me.

But as the slave had been so heartlessly and almost cruelly sent back to his little boat, there was in fact no robbery, and all that could have been claimed was the intention or intent to kill, etc. I did not understand then, and have not since been able to learn, sufficient law to properly satisfy myself on this question, but the facts are as has been stated here.

On his return to the Rebels, the colored boy, no doubt, gave these officials an exaggerated story of his experience with the bold highwayman, or freebooter, in his boat on the bay, thinking in this way to obtain for himself some immunity from the terrible punishment that awaited all slaves who were caught out at night, which would be more especially severe at such a time and under such circumstances as had just happened to him.

The Rebel officers, of course, when they heard the dreadful story from the lips of my boatman, at once began looking up the details of the recent visit of the Texan among them, and readily gathered sufficient data from my week's companionship and intercourse in their midst to justify the conviction that I was a dangerous fellow, and had gone over to the Yankees, knowing their hand and game too well.

It is probable that the object of the flags-of-truce was, primarily, to create in the minds of our officers an impression that I was unworthy and undeserving of belief. Before leaving Washington I had, while in consultation with an official of the War Department, been given to understand that, as a matter of policy, it would be more to my credit to obtain information and report directly to the War Department; and I was cautioned not to acknowledge to any person—friend or foe—that I was on a secret errand. I had not, during my brief stay at the fort, mentioned to any of the officers the fact that I was visiting in the service of the War Department, and had only informed Captain Porter of my hasty interview with the Secretary, admitting to him that the present service was purely voluntary, but that I expected to be regularly engaged on my return home. I had no papers of any kind in my possession, and even if I had brought along with me the Secretary of War's endorsement on my application, no person would have been able to have read the Secretary's peculiar chirography.

Some of our officers, in April, 1861, were inclined to accept the Rebels' interpretation of the laws, and those at Pickens were, I fear, disposed, as a matter of mere courtesy to surrender on their demand my person a victim of their unholy vengeance. At that time Ben Butler, Fremont, or General Banks, had not had the opportunity to lay down the law of the nation to the Rebels in arms against its authority; but, luckily for me, I was aboard the ship commanded by Captain D. D. Porter, and though I had in my uncertainty of mind for several days "been like Mahomet's coffin, suspended between the earth and sky," I did not at the time these negotiations were pending know that my life was hanging by so slender a thread, or, more properly speaking, that I was liable to be suspended by numerous threads woven together in the more substantial form of a rope.

Captain Porter's interview, however, satisfied me at the time, but when I witnessed with what cordiality and heartiness the Rebel officers were being received aboard our ship, my mind was puzzled, and I recall now a feeling of uncertainty or misgiving.

In a day or so after Captain Porter's reception and emphatic rejection of whatever propositions the Rebel officers accompanying the truce boat had made to him, in regard to giving into their hands for trial the Yankee Spy, I bid Captain Porter and his ship a hearty and thankful farewell, and the curtain was rung down on my Pinafore experiences.

The side-wheel transport steamer Philadelphia being ready to return to the North, a day preceding her sailing I was placed aboard of her as a dead-head passenger for New York.

There were quite a number of passengers aboard, among them Lieutenant Slemmer and one other artillery officer, whose name I have forgotten, who were going home for the benefit of their health; also a number of mechanics who had been employed about some repairs on the Fort.

As seen from the deck of the transport, as we weighed anchor and pointed her prow homeward-bound, I thought the sloop-of-war Powhattan, with her companion ship, the Brooklyn, with their port-holes and big guns and men aloft, to give us a parting salute, was one of the most beautiful sights imaginable. How much better pleased I was with the view from this standpoint than I had been with the sailing and saluting of the transport which had sailed a few days previous, under just such circumstances (except that I wasn't aboard of her on my way home).

Our captain had taken aboard some field-pieces of heavy artillery which had not yet been stowed below. While we were yet in that portion of the gulf where the water was comparatively so smooth, and the weather so fine, our civilian captain amused himself by calling on all hands to assist in mounting one of these guns on its field carriage, in the bow of his old transport, while he entertained himself and the ship's company with great stories of the danger from the newly-fledged privateers that Jeff Davis so promptly issued his letters of reprisal for.

We steamed along smoothly and slowly enough for a day or two without any adventure. I have often wondered since what would have been the effect on the old ship if that captain had taken a crazy notion to have fired one of those big field-pieces.

When we reached Tortugas, or Fort Jefferson—which I believe is the name of the immense affair which seems to rise straight out of the water—there was considerable saluting and signaling with the flags on the Fort as we approached the anchorage.

We stayed at Tortugas part of two days, storing away the guns, and I do think they were two of the most intolerably hot days that I have ever felt. As we lay at anchor, and when the sun was highest, it was necessary to spread over the ship's deck the large canvas awning, which the sailors said was to prevent the pitch calking from melting out and to avoid "warping the ship."

Here I went ashore, if going inside an immense Fort can be called shore—there certainly was no freedom about it—but it was a great relief to one's legs to be able to stand and walk about on the ground once more, even though it was inside of great walls, and the only persons to be seen were the men of the garrison, their officers and a few families.

During our voyage—after leaving Key West—our Fort Pickens officers, Lieutenant Slemmer and his companion, had kept close to their rooms—probably they were too sick to make an appearance—but when the ship got into the bay, and as we ran up the river to the anchorage, Mr. Slemmer's sick companion made his appearance dressed up in full regimentals. As he sat on top of the pilot-house with our captain, with his mantle thrown back over his shoulder, and showing the brilliant red lining of the artillery uniform, he looked to me then as if he were expecting to be received as a hero.

Lieutenant Slemmer, on the other hand, modest and retiring, did not show himself at all; and, as soon as he got ashore, he scurried off to Pennsylvania to meet his wife, who had previously been highly honored and entertained after her return North through the rebel lines.

Your humble servant was not long in getting on solid ground, and, in company with a Spanish exile from Cuba, we drove at once to the Astor House. Here was lying in state, in their heavily draped parlor, the body of Colonel Ellsworth, the funeral cortege being on the way from Washington City to the burial place, somewhere east of New York.

It is not for me, in this narrative, to attempt anything like a description of the exciting times I was permitted to witness in New York City that Sunday. Those who have followed me in this effort to picture my solitary and lonely adventures, away off in Florida, when my attempts, voluntarily, to do something for my country, and for the people who were then so terribly in earnest at home, will appreciate my feelings of joy and happiness, over being once more among friends—and such great, hearty, fighting friends, too, as everybody seemed to be at that time.

The first thing I did was to go to a telegraph office; and, climbing up four or five flights of stairs, I found Mr. Porter in charge of the operating room, as chief operator and manager; and although I had never met him personally, I was well acquainted by wire, having often worked with him at the other end of a 300 mile wire.

Introducing myself, and briefly explaining my arrival from Florida, and a desire to announce myself to friends at the other end of his wire, he astonished me by at once saying:

"Why, bless me, is this you? There's been lots of talking over this wire about you lately."

Then he related at length all he had seen and heard of my career through the newspapers during all the time I was a helpless prisoner aboard the Powhattan.

He had, as you may imagine, a great deal of news for me about myself, as reported by the Southern press and extensively copied in the North.

I was soon put in communication over the wire with a brother operator near my own home; and, strange as it may appear to those who are not familiar with the humors of the telegraph, an operator's "touch," even though a thousand miles distant, like the sound of a familiar voice, is recognized by some peculiarity that attaches to the operator's style.

My old friend at the other end of the wire, on hearing my "sending" at the New York end, told me afterward, that on that quiet Sunday morning, when all alone in his office, he had been reading at that very moment a newspaper account of my adventures, in which it was made to appear that our officers had, in reply to the demand of the rebels, informed them, that they—the Union officers—were going to hang this spy themselves; and while he was yet thinking that as between the two, there was no hope of my escape, his attention was called to the signal for his office to receive a message. Hastily answering to "G. A.," or the telegrapher's go ahead, he pulled out a pencil to note down the message. The first words the brass tongue of the instrument sounded to his startled ears were:

"I am O. K."—this was my telegraphic signal—"Who are you?"

He said he knew as quickly as the words "I am," were sounded, that it was me at the key; but, in his present state of mind, could not resist the feeling that he was about to communicate with a spirit, or the ghost of his friend, but, as the sounder became silent, or paused for a reply, he recovered himself, and answered nervously that he was my old friend Gilson.

Then we had a long, confidential talk in whispers, as it were, over the long wire, in which much that I have tried to relate in these pages was briefly gone over, while I was, in turn, informed of all that had been done and said during my absence.

Word was sent to my father and to my sweethearts and all my friends. As I rose to leave the office, and turned to thank my old fraternal companion for his kindness and courtesy, in giving me this opportunity to at once converse with my home, he suggested to me that, as I had been so grossly misrepresented, I ought to see the New York papers and have my story properly given to the world.

At his request, I agreed to meet him at the office in the evening, when he would take me to the different offices of newspapers with which he, as manager of the Associated Press, had friendly relations, and introduce me to the editors.

Leaving Mr. Porter, I found my way next to Rev. Henry Ward Beecher's Church, in Brooklyn, as being one of the necessary things to do in New York on a Sunday morning. Here I got a back seat, in a crowded gallery, and, as I had not yet gotten over the tumbling and rolling sensations experienced aboard our old tub of a ship, as I sat there and tried to ogle the pretty girls in the choir over Mr. Beecher's pulpit, the whole church persisted in rocking and rolling, precisely as the ship had been doing for a week.

The rest of the day I put in sending notes and messages to Washington, and to friends whom I had left at home, but many of whom, I now learned, were out in the army, at different points.

In the evening, I met my friend according to appointment, and together we called at the New York Herald office, where I was pleasantly welcomed as a "fruitful subject," and the shrewd city editor pumped me thoroughly dry before he let me out of that chair by his desk.

From there we went to the New York Tribune, where the same procedure was gone through but at somewhat greater length. The next morning, which, if I remember rightly, was May 28th, 1861, these two New York papers printed with bold head-lines a full account of my recent adventure.

The Tribune, I think, published one of their war maps, in which was located the different Rebel batteries, but in such a mixed-up way that I was unable to understand it myself.

However, it satisfied the people, and for a single day I was a greater hero in New York than Lieutenant Slemmer.

Luckily for me, perhaps, I was anxious to get back home to see my number one girl, and got out of the city before I could be wholly spoiled.

When I got over to Philadelphia, where I had some old railroad friends, upon whom I called for passes home, I was also quite a big fellow among my former railroad associates, and the passes were furnished without a question as to my claims or rights. Fortunately, I survived it all.

I reckon I should have first reported to the War Department, at Washington, but at that particular time I was much more concerned about what No. 1 would think of it all, than I was for the opinion of the War Department, so I first reported to her, and the first words I heard were:

"Why, I thought you were hung!"

What a deadener that was! The word hung fell from her lips into my heart like the dull, sickening thud of the dropping victim from the scaffold. But this isn't to be a love story, so I must pass over some of the most interesting little events in the career I am trying to describe, although they supply the motive for many of the acts and incidents which to all my friends seemed queer.

CHAPTER VII.

REPORTING TO THE SECRETARY OF WAR, AT WASHINGTON—ORDERED ON ANOTHER SCOUT TO VIRGINIA—IN PATTERSON'S ARMY, IN VIRGINIA, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.

I was having such a pleasant time at my home and among my young friends, that I took no thought of reporting to the officials of the War Department, at Washington. One day we were advised by the papers that Senator Andy Johnson, the famous Unionist of Tennessee, would pass through our town on his way to the Capital. This was about the time of the outbreak of the reign of terror in East Tennessee, and the sturdy Senator, with many others of the same fearless build, had been forced to flee for his life. But while he was a hunted fugitive when south of the Ohio River, his progress through the loyal States to Washington was a right royal one.

As will be recalled, Mr. Johnson had been my first friend in Washington, and it was through my association with himself and Mr. Covode that I had entered the service.

When the train rolled up to the station, I was the first to board the car, and, in my rather boyish way, pushed unceremoniously through the crowd to where the Senator was holding an impromptu reception. He greeted me very kindly by a hearty shake, as he bade me sit down by him, and as soon as he found an opportunity, in his half-laughing, fatherly way, began to catechize the boy.

As I have previously said, up to the meeting with the Senator, I had been entirely neglectful of my proper duty of reporting to the War Department a formal account of my movements since leaving Washington. I assumed that, in a general way, the newspaper comments, which were quite flattering in the North, would be sufficient.

This fact, with the frank confession that I really felt myself under greater obligations to a little girl, and was more willing to do her bidding than that of the Secretary of War, explains another of my many mistakes during the war.

When I told Senator Johnson that I had not heard from the War Department since leaving Washington in March—it was early in June now—he said at once:

"Why, you had better come right along with me to Washington. You ought to be there now."

Just then the train began to move off; a friend standing near me who had heard the Senator's suggestion, emphatically seconded it, by saying:

"Go on; now is your chance; you might be too late if you wait here longer."

I had no opportunity to say good-by to my folks, my friends, or my sweetheart; but went off as impulsively as before on a scouting campaign that, in effect, lasted until the close of the war.

During that night's railroad ride over the Alleghany Mountains, as I sat alongside Mr. Johnson, as we sped along the Juniata, I told him my story. The Senator was an attentive listener, and, before going to sleep, directed that I should at once put myself in communication with the War Department, and refer the secretary to himself and Mr. Covode.

In those days I did not consider a berth in a sleeping-car a necessary condition for a night's ride, but found an empty seat, curled my five feet six and-a-half inches of body into three and-a-half feet of space, and slept the sound sleep of youth, while the train rapidly rolled through the darkness toward the sunrise and daylight.

On my arrival in Washington, I went directly to the Seventh Avenue Hotel, located at the northeast corner of Seventh and Pennsylvania avenues and Market space. This was Mr. Covode's quarters when in the city.

The clerk directed me to the parlor, where Mr. Covode was at that moment receiving a delegation.

Recognizing me at once, he collared me as a school-master would a truant boy whom he had caught unexpectedly. I was pleasantly hauled across the room and introduced to Mr. John W. Forney, as a "young man from our own State who had been down amongst the Rebels, and they couldn't catch him; and if they had, he wouldn't be here now.—Ha! ha!"

I found myself quite well known in Washington wherever introduced by Mr. Covode and his friends. It will be remembered that Mr. Forney was then a prominent newspaper man, and no doubt he found in the boy, who had just returned from a trip through Rebel armies, quite an interesting news source for his papers.

I had been compelled to go over my story so much that I really became quite surfeited with the whole business, and was glad enough when evening came, that I could go off alone and have a nice little time around the corner at the "Canterberry." Every old soldier who spent a day or night in Washington will laugh when he reads anything about the "Canterberry." I confess that for a time I became so greatly interested in the famous bouffe singer, Julia Mortimer, that I had nearly forgotten No. 1, and was becoming quite indifferent in regard to my appointment or business with the War Department.

I found that it was about as difficult as before I left the city for Montgomery to obtain a private hearing with the Secretary.

Upon the suggestion of these friends, who had interested themselves in me, I was advised to make my application personally to the Secretary of War for a commission in the regular army; all agreed that this would be about the proper thing to do, it being understood that, in case I should secure this, which would be a permanency, that I could, of course, be detailed in the customary way, on special staff duty, in the field, where there would be opportunity for me to make some use of the information I had obtained of the Southern country and their armies.

With this object in view, I called at the War Department one day in company with Mr. Covode.

Mr. Cameron was, as usual, very busy. There were a great many persons waiting their turn for an audience. Mr. Covode was admitted out of the regular order, because he, being a Congressman, had stated to the attendants, in his positive way, that his business was most urgent, and that he must see the Secretary. Mr. Cameron received us at first rather gruffly, when he learned that the object of this visit was to secure an office; but, upon being reminded of a former appeal and promise, and my recent services being brought to his attention in Mr. Covode's glowing style, the Secretary turned to me laughing, in his quiet way, and said:

"Well, there's no doubt but that you have the pluck necessary for the army."

Then turning to Mr. Covode, abruptly interrupting him, as if to ask a question:

"We would like to find out just now what the Rebel Johnston is doing down in front of Pennsylvania."

Covode was ready to change the subject, and follow the Secretary's lead, and at once spoke for me:

"Well, here's the boy to find out all about it."

He didn't seem to think it necessary to consult me about the matter at all. Mr. Cameron, looking at me quizzically, said:

"I will have you in mind, and get you something as soon as I can find a suitable place."

Then turning about, as the attendant brought in a message from another urgent Congressman, he said, in an authoritative manner:

"Covode, you go to Army Headquarters and tell them I sent you there with this young man. They can use him to advantage, perhaps. I will see you again."

I wasn't exactly satisfied with this outlook. I had thought that I was through with the spy business, and had no desire to undertake any more lonely and isolated trips through the enemy's country.

Since my return I had found that nearly all the young fellows of my acquaintance were either in the army, or about to enter it, and I had naturally imbibed the military fever which prevailed at this time. I reckon every one of us expected, as a matter of course, to become colonels or generals in short order, for gallant service in front of the enemy, so it was not at all to my liking that I was being steered in the direction of the rear of the Rebel lines again.

In my case, it was a doubly-dangerous undertaking, as I had so recently been well advertised all over the South in their papers, and was, of course, liable to be recognized and hung as a spy if I should be captured any place in their lines. As I walked with Mr. Covode from the old War Department Building I said something to him about my misgivings, but in his hearty way he assured me by saying: "Oh, this isn't going to last long." And then in a confidential manner he said: "Old Simon wants to find out something; you just go ahead and do as he wants you to, and it will be all right."

When we reached Army Headquarters we encountered a sentry on duty at the door—a soldier of the regular army, who did not show Mr. Covode any particular attention, not recognizing a Congressman in his rough exterior. After some dilly-dallying we were admitted to the presence of a military-looking fellow whose name I can not recall. Mr. Covode introduced himself, and presented me as being sent by the Secretary of War. This announcement at once seemed to put the officer in a better humor with himself and his callers. Mr. Covode brusquely stated his business; the officer attentively listened and sharply eyed me while Mr. Covode went through with his story about my services at Pensacola.

"Does the Secretary want to procure any information as to General Patterson's movements?"

(It will be remembered that at this time General Patterson was being urged by the War Department to make a demonstration on Johnston, to prevent him reinforcing Beauregard at Manassas.)

Mr. Covode answered: "We want all the information we can get from all quarters, and he can get it too."

The officer said, smilingly: "Oh yes, of course; the young man is in the secret service of the War Department."

Returning to the Secretary's office for some written authority to present to General Patterson, we were directed by Mr. Cameron to one of the clerks, who, after a short private conversation between Mr. Covode and Mr. Cameron, was authorized to prepare a note of introduction. As he handed the official envelope to me, he took occasion to observe, in a very pleasant way:

"I would suggest that this young man should not permit any persons to become acquainted with his business; the department prefers to hear from their special agents in confidence, and not through the newspapers." This hint given in this pleasant manner, I did not forget in following months or years.

To my friend and tutelar saint, Mr. Covode, I again expressed my doubts about any secret service, after returning from our brief interview with Mr. Secretary-of-War Cameron and the official at Army Headquarters. Mr. Covode apparently agreed with my conclusions, saying, as he reached for the official-looking letter which the War Department clerk had given me, and that I hesitatingly held in my hand: "Lets see that letter."

Putting on his old-fashioned round-eyed spectacles, he read half aloud, in his deliberate way, as if studying out some hidden meaning:

"This will introduce to you Mr. O. K., a young man who has gained some personal knowledge of the plans of the Rebels, and who, I hope, may be of service to you in the same direction, etc.

(Signed), "Simon Cameron, Secretary of War."

He read it over a second time, and then looking at me, as if he had suddenly solved a problem said: "Didn't he tell you to report direct to the War Department?"

"Yes," I remembered that I was advised to report to the War Department first and not to the newspapers.

"Well," says Mr. Covode, "that's all right; you go up there and find Patterson and present that letter, and he will give you authority to go wherever you please, and you let us know here what's going on."

When I left the old man, I ventured a word as to my prospects for a commission in the regular army, to which he gave the usual answer: "Oh, that's all right," and added—

"Come and see me to-morrow and I'll give you some more letters to some friends in Patterson's army."

After a restless night, I was early at Mr. Covode's room receiving a pleasant good-morning. He said in a confidential whisper, but which was loud enough for any person to have heard had we not been alone in the room:

"I saw some of those people last night, and it is all right." That wasn't very great encouragement to be sure, but, he added with a significant wink, "You go up there at once and find out all you can, and report to me what's going on, particularly if there are any Rebels going to attack Patterson's army," and he added, again with emphasis, "Report to me here, quick as you can."

"Yes, but this letter is to report to General Patterson."

"That's all right; you are to report direct to the War Department, too."

I began to feel considerably mixed up by these contradictory instructions, but all the satisfaction I could get from Mr. C. was—"That's all right," to which he added, as I was leaving, "You tell me all you can find out, and I'll make it all right at the War Department."

As this letter had been prepared and signed by a clerk in the War Department, the penmanship was, of course, in the regulation copper-plate style, wholly unlike the former endorsement that I had received in Mr. Cameron's own handwriting.

Though Patterson's army was in the neighborhood of Harper's Ferry and Williamsport, Maryland, about fifty miles distant in a direct route from Washington, I concluded that, with such a recommendation in my possession, the furthest way round might be the nearest way home; I would not risk the capture of that note by taking a short cut, so I made a safe detour, going due north to Baltimore and Harrisburg, Pa., distant over a hundred miles; thence I came back southwest through the beautiful Cumberland Valley to Chambersburg and Hagerstown, about seventy-five or eighty miles more ground.

Here I was almost literally dumped from the car into the midst of General Patterson's army—a lively host of the gallant and patriotic boys who had rushed to arms at the first call of President Lincoln for the three-months men.

There have been books upon books published giving the history of this campaign, any one of which probably contains a more satisfactory description of the camp-life of those days than I would be able to give here. This effort is necessarily a personal, and, to some extent a private history only, of the campaigns of an individual scout, but I may be indulged in the hope that some of the old boys, who will take the trouble to follow me in these wanderings, may have been among those who were in camp near Hagerstown along in June and July, 1861. With what tenacity the mind clings to the remembrance of those early days of the great war.

I recall, as if it were but yesterday, this first hunt through the different camps for "Headquarters."

Jolly soldiers were to be found everywhere, either walking about the roads in hilarious squads, or assembled in groups under the shade of trees by the roadside, or perhaps crowding the porches and occupying all the chairs in the neighboring houses. In after years, when provost-marshals and camp-guards were established, the sky-larking was not so common, and the crowds, then, were usually to be seen only around some spring or well of water.

I recall now with amusement how ignorant some of the three-month boys of '61 were about their own army-headquarters. Many to whom I applied for information about the location of headquarters, referred me severally, to their own colonels, while one young officer, I remember, pointed to a mounted officer just riding past as the "General's Assistant."

I tramped through miles of dust that hot afternoon before I could get onto General Patterson's track, and, when I finally discovered headquarters, I learned that the General with some of his aides were attending a dinner-party in the town and could not be seen before the next day.

I did not deliver my letter of introduction to the officer, who I thought at the time rather impudently demanded to know my business with the General, but merely told him that I should call again to see the General.

Having tried to perform a duty, and attended to business first, I set about enjoying the holiday which it seemed to me the boys were having all around. How like a circus it all seemed; some of the scenes then enacted might be compared to that of a country fair, at which there was being held, as an additional attraction to the country people, a militia muster or a prize drill, such as we see now when the State troops assemble one week in summer for their annual camp and drill. There was so much free and easy mixture of civilians and ladies with the soldiers—especially the officers—all were being constantly stirred up by the bands, that seemed to break forth in melody from every grove. There was, of course, the dust on the roads; the processions of thirsty crowds to and from the springs or wells; it all seems now like an immense picnic. Dear me, what bass drums there were in General Patterson's army; wasn't there one to each company? The old-fashioned bass drum, too, as big as a barn door, and noisy in proportion, and to which was usually assigned the biggest fellow in the company the duty of beating on both sides.

A Rebel officer once told me that they were able to estimate the strength of McDowell's army before Manassas by the beating of bass drums at parades each evening.

Along about sundown the usual preparations were made in all the camps for the dress parade—the great feature of the day—which was being witnessed by hundreds, and perhaps thousands, of ladies, old men, and children, who would drive out from the town and surrounding country for miles to witness it, to the delight of the soldiers. What a beautiful sight, in June, 1861, was a full regiment of 1,000 freshly-uniformed, healthy, fresh men in line on dress parade, with their gayly-attired officers (staff and line), going through the "retreat" with fine musical accompaniment. How smart the adjutant was, and what a tremendous fellow the drum-major! On Sunday evenings, at this parade, the chaplain took a hand in the drill, making a prayer, while the long line of the full regiment stood at "parade rest," uncovered, with heads bowed, their little fatigue caps being placed on the muzzle of the gun; the band played "Old Hundred," and perhaps a chorus of a thousand male voices sung the soul-thrilling melody of the grand old tune, which is sung in Heaven. So it was in front of Hagerstown in June or July, 1861.

It was the fortune of war for me to be with the Army of the Potomac again before Hagerstown in July, 1863—a week after the battle of Gettysburg. But—ah, yes—the conditions were sadly changed; scarcely a brigade of that army could muster then as many men as were in each regiment in 1861. There were no visitors in camp; not a lady was to be seen, except, perhaps, the hospital attendants, and the music was confined to the tiresome routine of the "Reveille," "Tattoo" and "Taps."

My first day in General Patterson's army was so full of new and soul-stirring sensations, as compared with the same experiences in the rebel lines, that I was all in a ferment, and forgot about being tired, hungry and worn out, until the evening parades were all over, and the soldiers began to prepare their camp suppers.

While trudging wearily back to the town, some miles distant, to find some supper and a bed, I had the opportunity to reflect seriously in my own mind over the work that I had undertaken.

I wondered to myself if there were not Rebel spies in our army there. It occurred to me at once that there were no obstacles for them to overcome—the entire camp was free; everybody was welcomed indiscriminately to the camp by the good-hearted soldiers; and officers were only too eager to talk with every caller about all they knew of the plans and strength of their own army. This, notwithstanding we were then encamped in Maryland, among a people who, if not openly hostile to our cause, were generally in sympathy with the secessionists, whose army was within fighting distance and communication with their headquarters was only a question of an hour or so.

Our officers and soldiers had certainly taken Hagerstown, Md., as I found to my disgust when I reached the hotel after dark, finding every bed and every corner of the old tavern was literally in possessions of our forces, though, through the kindly interest of a citizen, I was luckily provided with half a bed in a private house. Of course I slept well, except that I was disturbed by a horrid nightmare. I had somehow been transformed into a big brass drum, which a brawny fellow insisted upon pounding upon my stomach, which probably hadn't succeeded in digesting the cold supper.

The first thing next morning was to try and find General Patterson. My experience of the previous day enabled me to steer in a straight course this time, so I was not long in getting to headquarters; but seeing General Patterson was not such an easy matter. His staff officers volunteered to attend to business for their General, but I wouldn't, of course, allow any person to learn the character of my business. It was only after I had written a note, stating that I had a letter from the Secretary of War which I desired to present personally, that I was permitted to approach the Commander.

I need not describe the old Philadelphia militia General. He had, as is well-known, achieved some distinction during the Mexican War, and since that had enjoyed a life of leisure in his native city, where he had, by means of his wealth and accomplishments, become connected with the aristocratic families of the Quaker City. He was, besides, a patron of the military and the clubs; and being so favorably endorsed by prominent people of the State, he was selected to command the troops of Pennsylvania, then operating against General Joe Johnston of the rebel army.

After some further delay, I was admitted to the presence of the old general, who, I imagined, was surprised at my youthful appearance and wondered that I had the temerity to beard such a grim old soldier as himself in his den.

There were several other officers present, and also two gentlemen in civilian's dress, one of whom was quite an elderly-looking gentleman while his companion was a young fellow, whose appearance struck me at once as being that of a Southerner. While General Patterson read my note of introduction from the Secretary of War, I embraced the opportunity to more closely observe the visitors, who were being entertained so pleasantly by the officers.

I quickly gathered from the conversation that the elderly gentleman was applying to our officers for some protection from our own soldiers, for his property. He probably owned some cherry trees in the neighborhood of the camp, or, perhaps, it may have been that the soldiers insisted on using some of the water from an overflowing spring somewhere on his ground. Whatever it was, he was receiving from the staff officers quite emphatic assurances that he should receive all the protection he wanted, and, moreover, the men guilty of trespassing on his ground should be severely punished. The young fellow whom I assumed to be the son had nothing to say.

After General Patterson had finished reading the note, he turned, and, after looking me all over, through his glasses, as if I was some kind of a curiosity who stood meekly and innocently before him, said: "Why, take a seat." Then, turning to one of his aides, he said something in an undertone as he handed him the letter. The aide, after reading it carefully, stepped up to me and pleasantly but coolly invited me outside, when he said: "The General requests that you will come to his quarters this evening."

This wasn't exactly satisfactory to me, but I was glad enough to get from the presence of the General's visitors, because I was apprehensive that something might be said in their hearing that would identify me as a scout.

My visit to General Patterson occurred about the time that General Joe Johnston was manœuvering in his front, with the object of getting away from him to reinforce Beauregard at Manassas, in anticipation of the impending battle there. Our Washington officials were uneasy as to the outcome of this movement, and had been almost daily urging General Patterson to make some demonstration in front of Johnston that would prevent his leaving for Manassas.

Though I did not know it at the time, I have since learned that the War Department, at Washington, while they would not employ scouts themselves over the head of the Commander of the department, yet were willing enough to avail themselves of the information of the scout who could make his reports in an unofficial manner, through Mr. Covode, without compromising the courtesy or etiquette of the War Office.

The whole country seemed to be alive with soldiers, all in a jolly good humor, nicely dressed, well fed. Their camps were models of tent life.

There did not seem to me to be any preparation whatever for marching to meet the enemy.

There was an immense amount of talk about what they intended to do. General Patterson's army did move, of course; but—Well, to go on with my story: I was most anxious to do something great myself, being so filled with military ardor by the bass drums; perhaps the probability of the war being closed before I should have the pleasure of participating in a real fight with guns, was more constantly before my mind than any other danger.

It seemed a long wait until evening, when I could again see General Patterson, and unfold to him a plan I had formulated, to go inside the Rebel lines that very night, and before morning find out, from a visit to General Johnston's army, what he was likely to do. In my youthful ardor I hoped I could return to General Patterson before breakfast time, that he might have the fight that same day before dinner.

These were the wild feelings that were swelling in my breast when I approached headquarters to meet General Patterson's appointment. I walked boldly up to a group of officers who were loafing around headquarters; a sentry challenged me; nothing daunted, I pointed to one of the group—the same officer who had directed me to call—and asked to see him.

My running into the sentry had made some little commotion, which served to call the attention of the officer, who recognized me and ordered the guard to allow me to pass. Meeting me half way, we walked to one side. I believe this officer was Fitz-John Porter, who was then Chief-of-staff—I am not positive; anyway, I was courteously received, and, after being seated, was put through a course of cross-examination as to my recent experience in the South, pretty much—as I now recall it—after the manner of a witness in his own defense.

Being satisfied that General Patterson had referred the whole subject to this officer for his action, I told him briefly and pointedly that I was willing and ready to undertake the service I proposed, and believed that it was possible to ascertain the movements, and perhaps the plans of General Johnston; that I could at least gather from their telegraph communications to Richmond and Manassas the purport of any instructions which were, of course, being sent to Johnston in that way over the wires. I was perfectly willing, for the good of the cause, to undertake the dangerous service of getting back through the lines with the information.

Whatever may have been thought of the feasibility or propriety of this project, Mr. Porter could scarcely have doubted my motive, but he apparently looked upon me as a youthful enthusiast, or, as we term it nowadays, a crank. He said:

"The General is not disposed to make much use of the service of scouts; he thinks it altogether unnecessary in this instance."

If Fitz-John Porter had dashed a bucket of cold water in my face, it would not at the time have had a more chilling effect than his few hard words he uttered in this contemptible manner.

My proposition was not visionary, but entirely practical, and I venture now the opinion that had the service been accepted in the proper spirit it is possible that the despised spy might have brought to his shiftless headquarters some reliable information of Johnston's proposed movement to Manassas, which might have prevented his escape, and thus have turned the tide of battle at Bull Run, which followed soon after the interview.

It is likely that the headquarters of the army were a little over-sensitive on account of the well-known or the imagined interference or meddling of the Washington authorities with their military prerogatives. It has been fully explained in the "Century" history, (since this story was first told) that General Scott, through the proper channels, had been for days urging General Patterson to look carefully after Johnston, and to prevent at all hazards his junction with Beauregard.

The urgency of the Washington officials, taken in connection with the letter I brought from the Secretary and Mr. Covode, may perhaps have caused them to infer that they were considered neglectful and needed some prompting and investigation; perhaps it may have been thought that I had been sent out as a spy in their own camps. Any way, I was not a willing party to any such schemes; my only object and desire was to accomplish something for the benefit of the cause, and in this I had not a thought of myself.

Returning sorrowfully and with my heart laden with disappointment to my bed, I pondered long before sleeping as to my proper course. The longer I considered all the circumstances connected with my being sent up there, I realized more clearly the real meaning of Covode's words:

"Old Simon wants to find out something; you go ahead," and the repeated hints to report "direct," came back to me with a greater significance than when uttered by Mr. Covode in Washington.

My humiliating reception at headquarters had deeply affected my rather sensitive feelings on the spy question. I had decided in my own mind to return to Washington at once; but after reflection, while on my bed, there was a revulsion of feeling from humiliation to anger; and, after taking all things into consideration, I decided for myself, without consulting any one, that I should, on my own responsibility and without aid from our own officers, pass through our lines, enter the rebel lines, ascertain their plans, and go direct via Manassas to Washington, and report personally to the Secretary of War.

CHAPTER VIII.

A NIGHT'S SCOUT IN JOHNSTON'S ARMY—REBEL SIGNALS—VISITORS FROM THE UNION ARMY HEADQUARTERS REPORT TO REBEL HEADQUARTERS—GENERAL J. E. JOHNSTON'S ESCAPE TO BEAUREGARD REPORTED TO GENERAL PATTERSON—FITZ-JOHN PORTER RESPONSIBLE FOR THE FIRST BATTLE OF BULL RUN, AS HE WAS CASHIERED FOR THAT OF THE SECOND BULL RUN—AN IMPORTANT CONTRIBUTION TO THE WAR HISTORY OF THE TIME—THE STORY SINCE CONFIRMED BY THE "CENTURY" HISTORIANS OF LINCOLN, SECRETARIES NICOLAY AND HAY.

In the morning I mailed a hastily-written note to Mr. Covode relating briefly the result of the interview with General Patterson's principal aide, and stating further that I would return to Washington via the Rebel lines at Manassas, and report "direct" on my arrival.

I hunted up in one of the regiments a former acquaintance, who had some knowledge of my Fort Pickens adventures through the papers. As our talk naturally turned in this channel, he expressed a lively desire to engage with me in any further undertakings of this character, and, before we parted, it was mutually agreed that, if the arrangements could be made, we should travel together as scouts.

I told my chum of my intention of going to Washington via Winchester and Manassas, and suggested that he secure permission from his colonel to go part of the way along; that he might return with any important information that we should gather, while I should go on through to Washington. It was agreed that he should be granted a leave of absence for a certain time, but he was cautioned by all his friends not to follow my lead, as it would surely result in his getting hanged. The warnings served only to increase his anxiety to get started on a real adventure.

As we could not get authority from our officers to go outside of our lines, it was necessary that we should run the gauntlet of both the picket-lines; our own were in sight and could probably be easily managed, but we did not know anything whatever about the other.

WE HASTILY DRESSED AND RAN BACK FROM THE BANK.

I proposed that we should make the crossing of the river early in the evening under pretence of bathing, swim to the other side of the river with our clothes concealed in bushes held above the water. We were to assume the character of Baltimore refugees desirous of entering the rebel army. With this plan matured, and all the little minor points agreed upon between us in case of capture or separation, we were both eager for the night to come, that we might start upon the journey.

We both studied the Virginia landscape carefully during all of daylight, and when evening began to draw its shadows around the hills and trees our hearts beat quicker, in anticipation of the forthcoming adventure.

After sundown we joined a crowd who had permission to bathe. There were, probably, a dozen or more in the crowd. We quickly undressed; scarcely speaking a word to each other, we joined in a general way in the sport and antics that soldiers love so much to indulge in when off duty.

My wardrobe was done up in as small a bundle as was possible, and while the others were fully immersed in their sport, I slipped both bundles further down the shore; my friend watching the movement from among the crowd. At a hint from me he swam down the stream and, quickly picking up the two bundles in the darkness that had now come upon us, safely towed them to the other shore, where he waited for me. I joined him as soon as possible, without being missed; we hastily dressed and ran back from the bank into the bushes to finish our toilets, and take an observation and both laughing at our success in escaping from our friends.

We thought it best to avoid the public roads after passing our pickets, so kept to the fields and woods, we cautiously moving along, stopping every now and then to listen and peer through the darkness for some signs of life. We crossed field after field and passed through strips of woods that seemed to be miles in extent, carefully avoiding all houses in our path.

The tramp became lonesome and tiresome—our nerves were at the highest tension, as we expected at every step to meet with something, we didn't know exactly what. Without a sign of anything alive except the crickets and frogs, we finally became indifferent and careless, having about concluded in our own minds that the rebels had left that part of Virginia. One fact was certainly established early in the scout, there were no signs of an enemy in General Patterson's immediate front that night, and probably there had not been any regular force near him for several days; yet every soldier in our army was positive that the woods right in front of them where we had been tramping were full of rebels. General Patterson's official reports will show that he entertained this erroneous opinion; yet he had no desire to avail himself of the service of scouts.

Becoming convinced that we should not meet with any opposition, we became bolder the further we went, and at last took the public road, trotted along leisurely without much attempt at concealment for some distance; we had almost became disgusted, not meeting with any fun, when we stumbled right into a barricade, which had been placed across the public highway by the rebels. Luckily for the two foolish scouts, the enemy was not there to secure the game that had blundered into their trap.

It is doubtful if it had ever been occupied at all, being probably placed in that position as a blind. This blockade, however, would have answered the purpose of obstructing, for awhile at least, a cavalry raid, or charge. Most likely it had been placed there to protect a retreating army.

It did not have the effect of stopping us, however, and we moved on further south. As we emerged from a deep wood, we were at last rewarded by seeing a light on the top of the hill beyond, but yet some distance to the side of the road; we made this out to be a light in the window of some farmhouse, but my comrade, who was a farmer boy, suggested that it wasn't the right thing for a farmhouse to be lighted up that way at midnight.

Looking at it from our uncertain standpoint, we concluded to approach it cautiously and see if there were anybody stirring around about the light.

Climbing over the fence into the field, we approached that light by the cautious, engineering tactics, using a zigzag stake-and-rider fence for our sap. For the first time that night we felt for our pistols, which were the only weapons we had. The oppressive silence was broken by my farmer comrade's voice startling me by a husky.

"I'll bet we'll find the dogs at home, anyway."

We crawled up that fence in single line, heads and bodies bent, something after the style of pictures of Indians about to attack a pioneer's log house. Stealthily we moved along, pausing every moment or two to listen and look about. We had some dispute as to which of us should take the advance. I reasoned with my friend that he was the better countryman, and more familiar with stake-and-rider fences and dogs than I; that it was his place to go ahead; but he wouldn't have it that way, insisting that I was the captain and must lead; so I reluctantly went ahead, insisting that he should follow his leader close enough to be touched. While talking in hushed voices, I stepped abruptly right onto something soft and round, which jumped up as suddenly as if I had loosed a spring, and with an unearthly snort and grunt began to scamper off. I was so startled, and became so nervous from the suddenness of the encounter, that I must have jumped around as quickly as an automaton pulled by a string—my comrade being close to me, as directed. I had by my quick turn knocked my head square against his with such force that we were both stunned. It was only an old hog that we had roused from the innocent sleep of the country, which, at any other time, would have been awfully funny, but we were both too badly hurt to laugh, and too much scared to swear out loud.

This one hog started up some others, the whole herd scampering over the fields snorting, which in turn routed out the dogs from the house, that came tearing out toward the sounds. Luckily enough, there was a picket or garden fence between us and the house, which the dogs didn't get over, and, before they got around it, their attention was drawn away from our location toward the hogs that were still running away from us. While my companion and I were comparing notes we were further startled by hearing a sound of voices, which were apparently coming from the same direction we had just passed over. Now we were in for it. There were dogs in front of us, hogs to the side of us, and voices to the rear of us.

The lights at the house had disappeared suddenly when the dogs began their uproar—there was nothing to be seen except the outlines of the grove surrounding the house. While breathlessly considering what would be the next best move, the sound of voices was again heard, seemingly closer this time. Straining every faculty, I imagined that I could also distinguish footsteps; that there were more than one person was evident from the conversation; but whether they were colored boys, returning from a night out, or white men and enemies who, like ourselves, were on a scout, armed and liable to go off at half-cock on the slightest provocation, was the one thing we would have given anything to have found out.

We couldn't run, as our retreat was cut off, and, if we moved at all, we were likely to start up the pack of infernal dogs, so we did the only thing possible under the circumstances—kept still.

The footsteps came on up the road, the voices getting closer. We made out that there were three persons, all talking earnestly together. If they had discovered us we would probably have carried out the Maryland refugee plan, and have joined them and have escaped detection. But what if they should be our own men?

I imagine that I can hear better with my hat off, so putting my head close to the ground, and in such a position that I could see over the lower fence rail, I waited with beating heart the coming footsteps. It was soon evident that they were talking about the light in the house that had disappeared, and I soon learned from the voices and the language used that they were not colored men. As the trio came nearer, one voice said:

"Well, we'd better wait right here."

"Oh, it's all safe enough; let's go on!"

"But," said the first speaker, "they said not to come to the house at night, unless there was a candle light in that far-corner window."

The third, who had not yet spoken, was nearest me, and was looking into the field right over where I lay. I thought that through the darkness, to which our eyes had become accustomed, that I recognized a face and form that I had met some place, but was not able to clearly distinguish.

While there had been nothing said to indicate their errand, it became pretty clear from these words that they were enemies, as there was apparently an understanding about the light in the window.

Was it possible that there were other men from the house skirmishing around in the darkness to our rear, and aided with guns and those dogs, would they run us down?

The third person, stepping a little in advance of the others, said: "Get back to the fence; there's somebody up on the road."

They scattered, and in a moment more suppressed voices were heard coming from an opposite direction, or down the road.

We were between two enemies, but, fortunately, for us, on the opposite side and behind a big fence crouching in some elderberry bushes. My companion, as still as a log, was probably, like myself, so badly scared that he couldn't trust his voice to whisper a thought.

Two men—one in his shirt-sleeves, and the other in rebel uniform, which I so well recognized, as the same old grey I had been familiar with at Pensacola and Montgomery, came cautiously down the road. As they were almost directly opposite me, one of the three who had come up the hill, accosted them familiarly:

"Helloa, Billy; you like to scairt us to death. I thought the Yankees had put you and your light out sure."

At once there was mutual hand-shaking, laughter and general hilarity, that served to draw attention away from ourselves and the dogs. The man in his shirt-sleeves explained that he had kept his light in the window all right, until a little while previously, when the dogs scared up something, and he took it down, until he was sure everything was all right.

So here was a signal station, and a rendezvous. I took courage when the party began to move off toward the house, and, as they passed my loophole, I discovered, to my astonishment, that one of the three who had come up the road was none other than the young man I had seen in General Patterson's headquarters, accompanying the old gentleman, and both of whom were so cordially entertained by our General's staff. Here he was, a direct messenger from headquarters of our army, meeting, by a concerted signal, a Rebel officer in the enemy's country.

That was news, sure enough; and they had hardly gotten out of sight before I shocked my torpid friend as I, with an emphasis he did not understand, told him that we must both skin back to our army headquarters at once.

I wouldn't leave him to return alone with such important information, but together we would go direct to General Patterson's presence, and tell him that there were no Rebels confronting him; that the enemy had positive and direct information of his position and probable plans.

"The best laid plans of mice and men, gang aft agley."

As previously indicated, I had intended to go straight through the rebel armies to Manassas, and so on to Washington via General McDowell's army and the Long Bridge. In pursuance of this plan, we had cleverly escaped from our own pickets during the early hours of the night, successfully tramped miles into the Rebels' country without meeting a challenge—eluding any pickets or outlooks the rebels may have had out, by a careful avoidance of all the roads or other usual routes of travel. But I had no intention of putting myself any closer to the fellow whom I had met the day previously at General Patterson's headquarters, and whom I had just discovered to be a Rebel spy, in communication with the man in the rebel uniform, and the farmer in his shirt-sleeves. Had I tried the Maryland refugee dodge on this gathering of scouts, who were familiar with all the border, he would have recalled having seen me at General Patterson's headquarters, and an explanation would have been embarrassing.

Luckily for the two scouts, who were lying in the bushes within sound of their voices, there was such an exuberance of good feeling among themselves over their meeting, after the little scare, that it had the effect of putting the entire party off their guard for the moment. No attention was paid to the antics of the dogs, which were whining and nosing around, uncomfortably close to our hiding-place in the fence-corner. The farmer, growing impatient at their noises, which interfered with the conversation, greatly to our relief, drove them back toward the house.

The only enemy we had expected to find were the rebel soldiers in gray uniform, with muskets in their hands, standing on guard. We had not calculated on their,

"Letting slip the dogs of war,"

or else we might have provided ourselves with a few poisoned dog buttons; of course, we couldn't use our pistols on the dogs, as that would jeopardize our lives; the report would arouse the country and locate us; so, like Lear,

"Mine enemy's dog,
Though he had hit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire."

The five men and the—I don't know how many dogs—had scarcely gotten out of sight when my comrade and I energetically started on the back track. I am ready to admit that we ran, that we ran fast, even though we didn't see where we were going, in the dark; and I confess that I was in the lead, but my comrade kept up with me pretty well. We ran over the soft, grassy fields in the direction from whence we had come, for a long time without either of us speaking a word. When nearly out of breath and exhausted we let up a little, to get our second wind for the final run, if any more miserable dogs should get onto our scent.

"Say," gasped my comrade, breathing hard, "I think you cut my head open when you jumped onto me, when that hog scared you; it's all bloody, ain't it?"

I didn't stop long enough then to examine his head; I was in too much of a hurry, and, besides, it was too dark to distinguish blood. I replied to him rather testily, perhaps, as I didn't quite relish the reminder of being scared by a sleeping hog.

"I wasn't scared at all—just merely startled—and if you hadn't been holding onto my coat tails so closely, you wouldn't have been hurt."

"Oh, hell! didn't you tell me to keep close to you?" he retorted, savagely, as he rubbed his head, and looked at the moist hand to see if he could distinguish the color of blood.

"And you wouldn't go ahead, either, unless I was right on top of you, and, if I did get behind a little, you stopped for me to catch up."

I forged on ahead sullenly, too mad to continue the conversation further, except to say, petulantly:

"I believe I am bleeding at the temple myself, from having bumped your thick head so hard when I turned round to caution you not to tramp on that hog."

But my companion was in too bad a humor—we both were—to laugh over the ridiculous mishap, which I am sure was as painful to myself as to him. We trudged along in the dark in sulky silence for some distance further, each nursing his sore head in wrath.

I ventured the suggestion, by way of a compromise to my cross companion, that if he had taken the lead in our approach to the house, as I had earnestly urged upon him, I might have been in as bad a fix as himself. To this offer of a compromise he curtly replied:

"No; I wouldn't have tried to jump out of my skin, just because I had kicked a sleeping sow in a fence-corner." He had scarcely finished speaking when he stumbled square across the back of an old cow, that was quietly lying in the grass chewing her cud; but cows, you know, are not so sudden in their movements as hogs, when they are startled out of their sleep. This one, anyway, didn't make any unearthly noise or snorts, nor attempt to jump up and run off, but lay still, quietly chewing away, apparently perfectly unconcerned.

I believe she would have allowed a whole army to have crawled over her without disturbing her repose, but the incident served to put us both in a laughing humor. I concluded, however, that I'd had enough experience with the hogs and cows of Virginia, while we were trying to navigate the fields, and I would take to the highway and risk the short cut back.

The night was dark, very dark, having become more so than when we were on the way out. Clouds had obscured almost every star, and, to make it still worse, we heard at times distant thunder. "The lowering elements scowled o'er the already darkened landscape," compelling us to almost grope our way along the old country road; but, luckily for us, we were now on the broad, well-traveled country road between two lines of fence, which served to keep us in the right course, as we cautiously felt our way with outstretched hands, and eyes peering into the darkness ahead, fearing every moment to come in contact with something that would give us another "start."

To the sounds of the thunder, which were not now so remote, were added occasional flashes of lightning; these, had I been at home in a comfortable bed, would probably have only produced the agreeable influence of lulling me into the enjoyment of a more snug sleep, but out there, on that road that night, the effect was quite different on both of us.

We were yet a long way from our camp—how far we had no means of knowing, as our route into Virginia had been somewhat circuitous, on account of the necessary avoidance of all the roads.

Pretty soon the big drops began to fall over us; the lightning flashes were more vivid and frequent; the thunder seemed to be all around us; then it rained in earnest, an old-fashioned, Virginia, summer-night's rain, wetting the two miserable scouts to the skin in a little while. It was no use to look for shelter, and we both resolutely made up our minds to grin and bear it; pulling our hats down and shrugging up our shoulders, we sullenly tramped along that Virginia highway, two as forlorn-looking objects as may be imagined.

In this frame of mind we stumbled right into another road obstruction. We had come upon it in this raging storm from the rear, and found the place vacant. We captured the fort, which we could see from the now frequent flashes of lightning was simply a slight mound of earth thrown across and extending some distance to each side of the road, in the form of a rifle pit; embrasures were made for cannon, and through one of these peered a log, or stick of wood, shaped like an iron cannon, the rear end or breech of which was supported on a saw-horse platform of crossed sticks. On the crest of their "works" were placed some fence rails, while in front, and some little distance down, some trees had been felled over the road, their branches being stripped of the leaves to answer the purpose of an abatis. In the darkness, we were unable to discover any signs of the place having ever been occupied by the rebel forces.

My companion recklessly began striking matches, which he had been able to keep in a dry place on his person, but, luckily for us, perhaps, had there been any one set to watch the place, and who might be only seeking a temporary shelter from the storm, his attempts to illuminate were frustrated by the gusts of wind and rain, which blew the light out as quickly as it was born.

Tired, wet, hungry and disgusted with ourselves, we sat down there in the enemy's camp to rest—if sitting on a log in a blinding rain-storm for an hour may be called resting—but we could do nothing else; the night was too dreadfully dark, and the wind and rain too blustering to allow us to safely travel on the winding roads, which lead through long strips of woods that seemed to paint everything, if possible, with a deeper gloom; beside this, we had discovered, by the lightning flashes, that the road in our front was blockaded by fallen trees, and the thought occurred to us that on this road there might be some Rebel guards seeking protection from the storm in some sheltered places.

My companion was so utterly discomfited and dejected that he refused positively to move a step further, saying:

"I'm going to stay right here till somebody comes and takes me away. I don't care whether it's Rebels or not."

So we held the fort, he finally succeeding in lighting up a little fire against and under an old log that had covered some little twigs from the storm.

"There's no danger of anybody coming out here to-night to see our fire, or bother us," said my comrade. "Nobody would be as foolish as we are, to be caught out to-night."

If we had been surprised in that condition, it's probable enough we could easily have palmed off the Maryland refugee story, and have obtained credit for our self-sacrificing devotion, in trying to overcome such dreary difficulties in getting into the Confederate lines.

I reasoned that this would be all right for him, if I were only sure of not running across the chap who had seen me at General Patterson's headquarters while I was presenting a letter from the Secretary of War proposing the spy service. My companion, who had not so much to risk, continued growling:

"Why, if we should get to the river, or run across some of our pickets in this darkness, they'd be sure to go off at half-cock, and shoot us before we had a chance to say beans."

This was a convincing argument with me. We were still between two fires. I agreed to wait for more light. I was anxious, however, that our officers should have the information we had obtained—that General Joseph E. Johnston's army was not in General Patterson's front, and the dreadful masked batteries, which were so much feared by our generals, were merely bush fortresses, thrown across the roads, or laid out shrewdly to deceive our officers. There were no soldiers and no cannon near them; and, moreover, the enemy was in communication direct with General Patterson's headquarters, as we could prove, and probably knew all his plans, while he was wholly ignorant of the probable escape of Johnston's whole force.

As I sat there, like a disconsolate toad, on that log, in the pelting rain, I pondered these things in my mind, until I became so nervous that I could scarcely keep still. Every moment was valuable. I determined to start again as soon as the rain would let up a little. But the elements seemed to be against us; it not only rained, but it poured, for the balance of the night, making the daylight later than usual.

My companion became sleepy and dreadfully stupid, and was apparently lost to all fear for his own safety. My time was pretty much occupied in trying to keep our little bit of fire from going out. Before I was fully aware of it, the grey daylight was mixing with the black, which was beginning to thin out as the rain slackened off somewhat. I soon began to distinguish objects in the landscape short distances away. A large farmhouse situated only a short distance to our rear was revealed, but being off the road, as is the custom in that country, we had passed it in our tramp along the road during the night.

If there were any guard at all for that place, they were probably comfortably housed there while the storm raged without, but they would probably be aroused bright and early in the morning, to look after their wooden guns. I kept my eyes strained toward this house for some sign of life, but not seeing anything, not even smoke from the chimneys, nor a dog in the yard, I turned wearily for a lookout in the direction of our own country, to try and discover, if possible, how far we were yet from our friends.

The rain had now ceased. My comrade, leaning against a log, was sleeping out loud; he didn't present a particularly attractive appearance, either; though a handsome young fellow, with black hair and eyes, and a fine form, he certainly was not a sleeping beauty; but, lying against a smoky old log, his eyes closed, but a capacious mouth hung wide enough open to have answered for the mouth of a cannon, the whole side of his face smeared with blood, that had oozed from the head, after the concussion over the hog, while the other half of his handsome face, being next to the smoky fire, over which he had been nodding in his sleep, was begrimed with the smoke and ashes that had adhered to his wet skin; the wet, dripping clothes were, of course, clinging to his manly form in anything but an attractive style. I felt that if I were nearly as ugly as he, the appearance of two such objects would be sufficient to frighten off anybody that might approach us, and I took renewed courage from this fact.

I turned from the contemplation of this ludicrous scene to again take an observation. In the direction of our lines this time I thought I discovered something moving along the edge of the wood. I was about to conclude that I had been mistaken, when I was startled by the appearance of two men, standing together some distance below, apparently talking earnestly, as one of them pointed up the road toward our Fort.

I was in a condition of mind and body to be chilled by anything at that time, and imagined that we had been discovered and were being surrounded to prevent our escape. Running back to my partner, I roughly shook him up, saying we had to move quickly. The stupid fellow, opening one eye, refused to stir. Giving him another good shake, I again repeated the warning. He slowly realized his position, and stared wildly about.

I dragged him over to where he might see the two men who were standing down the road, and endeavored to point out the danger; apparently not yet fully awake, he coolly crawled up on the felled tree, which was lying across the road, as if to get a better look at them, before I could pull him down. We were in for a run or a fight sure. I suppose my freely-expressed indignation at his absurd conduct had the effect of rousing him from his lethargy, as he seemed suddenly to come to his senses and was now ready to move off quickly enough.

To be caught by the Rebels attempting to go toward our line would put us in a bad plight. The men whom we had seen had disappeared at this ugly apparition on the log as suddenly as if the ground had opened and swallowed them up; whether they would come on up, or go for reinforcements, we didn't know.

We evacuated that fort, our line of retreat being in a course bearing toward our own lines, and leading us further from the two men.

We scampered through the wet underbrush and grass of the woods, every step being a slosh to the shoe-tops, while every bush dashed against our already well-soaked clothes all the water it had gathered in its leaves and branches from the rain of the night.

Early morning is the safest time for a scout to do his traveling, and we went straight along unimpeded, save by the wet undergrowth, and the disagreeable necessity of clambering over slimy old logs and fences, reaching the place where our pickets should have been while it was yet quite early. Here we made a mistake. Instead of attempting to pass back through our lines, as we had escaped out in the early evening previous, we thought that, being so tired, and wet, hungry, and so generally used-up, we might just as well approach boldly and surrender to our own pickets, knowing that we should be all right when once within our lines and our story of Johnston's retreat was told.

My companion being a member of a regiment that had performed picket duty, had some practical experience with the boys, and was, in consequence, quite uncertain as to the manner in which our flag-of-truce would be received by the men on guard; he said that, while on that duty himself, his instructions were to "fire at anything he saw moving, no matter what it was," and he was apprehensive the members of his own regiment would immediately bang away at us if we made an appearance out there.

"But, we will show them a flag-of-truce."

"Oh, that's nothing; there's some fellows in my company crazy to shoot at something, and they don't know a white from a black flag."

As it was daylight, there was no other way to get in, except by laying over in the woods till night, and this we couldn't think of doing in our miserable condition; beside this, we were hungry.

Feeling it to be a duty to risk even a fire from our own green pickets, to get in quickly with our information for General Patterson, I concluded to try the flag-of-truce project. Looking carefully about to see that we were not liable to an attack in the rear while making this advance, I picked up a stick in the woods, and tied to it, in the form of a flag, an exceedingly dirty, white handkerchief, and, after all was ready, with my hat in one hand, the flag well advanced in the other, I started out to make the communication, my comrade keeping close to me, there being no danger of tramping on a hog in broad daylight.

We had scarcely gotten out of the woods when I began waving the old handkerchief so wildly that the stick broke in two, dropping the flag on the ground. I grabbed up the remnant, nervously, for fear they might fire, and again waved it as we moved forward. We saw a commotion among our men—one or two blue coats were running around, as if to report the phenomenon that appeared before them. Walking ahead more rapidly, as we gained confidence from their not shooting at us, we were soon within hailing distance, and walked into their line nervously, and watched a half-dozen fellows clutching muskets which we knew were loaded, and might go off. Suddenly we were surrounded by all the guard who were not on post, who were anxious to see some real live, repentant rebels come into the Union again. That army had not yet seen a Rebel.

What a sorry looking couple we were to be sure. Dirty faces, and bloody heads, smoked about the eyes in a manner to make us ludicrous indeed, our clothes wet, dripping wet; and clinging to our bodies in rags, our tramp through the bushes having almost torn them off us.

The boys were cooking their early camp breakfast; through their kindness we each had some coffee and bread. I am a coffee-drinker now, and am, perhaps, a little cranky on the subject. I buy the best coffee, and have tried every patent coffee-pot that has ever been brought out, but I have not yet been able to find as delicious a cup of the beverage as was given me in a quart tin cup, with brown sugar and no cream, on the banks of the Potomac, in July, 1861.

While we were enjoying the hospitality of the boys, all of whom were greatly amused at our absurd appearance, and interested in our night's adventure, which my companion could not resist the temptation of exaggerating to his friends, the officer of the guard had reported his catch to his colonel, who peremptorily ordered us into his presence. Without allowing us an opportunity to wash or clean up, we were marched, like two prisoners, between two files of soldiers with fixed bayonets, through several camps, amid the laughter and jeers of the crowds which were attracted by the odd show.

Approaching the Pennsylvania-Dutch Colonel's tent, we were ordered, in a rough, dogmatic way, to make an explanation of our being in the enemy's lines. I was offended at the rude manner of the officer, and my feelings had been sorely wounded by being marched in this humiliating way through his camp; being resentful, I spunkily informed the Colonel that I should not report or explain anything to him; that my report would be to his superior only—General Patterson.

A crowd had gathered about us, whom the arrogant Colonel had proposed to entertain by an exhibition of his authority and our discomfiture, and my speech so angered him that he was ready to run me through with his sword. He swore in Pennsylvania-Dutch, and again demanded my explanation, which I firmly declined to give.

He was too angry to appeal to my comrade, but, in high military dudgeon, ordered us both to the guard-house, saying to the officer who had brought us there:

"Those two men had been on a drunk, and had been fighting each other, as any fool could see from their black eyes and bloody noses—put them both in the guard-house;" and he did.

There we remained nearly all that day, denied, by the stupidity and offended dignity of the Colonel, the permission I begged of being allowed to communicate with General Patterson.

I presume he sincerely believed we had been off on a regular jamboree en tare during the night, but it was a terribly rough joke on me, and the second time during the first four months of the war that I had been held a prisoner by our own officers while engaged in the performance of an exceedingly dangerous duty for the benefit of the Union cause. I again resolved, in my own mind, more firmly than before, that I should never again undertake any secret service.

My interview with General Patterson's Chief-of-staff—Fitz-John Porter—on presentation of my note of introduction from the Secretary of War, had been so unsatisfactory, that I naturally felt some misgivings as to the outcome of a second attempt in the same direction, particularly as this trip had not been authorized, but was, in fact, carried out independently and almost in opposition to the expressed disapproval of headquarters.

I felt, too, that being escorted to the General's presence, between two soldiers from a guard-house, without the opportunity to repair my dress and appearance, would not help the doubting and disdainful Chief-of-staff to a more favorable opinion of myself; and the recommendation the Dutch Colonel would be sure to send along with me would not be likely to create in the minds of the General's advisers a flattering opinion as to the reliability of our story.

I could get no satisfaction from the officers in charge at the guard-house as to our ultimate disposition. In reply to my appeals to be permitted to report to headquarters in person, I was directed to state my case in writing, and it would be forwarded through the regular channels. I knew very well that this circumlocution meant delay—that in this case delays would be dangerous, as any papers filed would have to be inspected by the officer of the guard, the captain, colonel, brigadier and major general, probably requiring a day at each of these headquarters before it would reach the Assistant-adjutant-general at headquarters.

Beside, I had no intention of submitting my special business to an inspection by every officer in camp before it should reach the proper authority, and so informed the officer who had been sent by the Colonel to obtain from me information as to my business with the General.

My comrade had been separated from me early in the day, and sent to his own company in arrest and disgrace; he had probably told his story to his own officers, who, knowing something of the young man, believed him, and in this way my case, which promised to be a lonely imprisonment for some days, was more speedily brought to the General's notice.

The young officer who had been sent to gather from me the account of our trip seemed to be favorably impressed by my urgent prayer to be permitted to report to General Patterson, and kindly offered to do all he could to gratify my desire. It was a long time, however, before I was able to hear from anybody outside of the sentry, who stood guard over me with a loaded musket.

During all those anxiously waiting hours, when I lay in the guard-house, Rebel General J. E. Johnston was rapidly getting further away, or at least making himself more secure with fewer troops in his present position, and I was brutally denied the privilege of informing our headquarters of the facts we had obtained, after a night of hard work, danger and misery combined. At last, about 4 P. M., I was notified to accompany my young officer to headquarters, to report. The young gentleman courteously granted me the privilege of washing and dressing myself up in the best way I could—he generously aiding me by the tender of a collar, brushes, etc. After a long walk, which was quite tiresome after the exercise of the night previous in the rain, we reached headquarters, where I was met at once by General Porter, who politely enough heard my story through, questioning me closely as to several points in a manner which, I augured, showed some interest in the work we had undertaken.

With a simple word of thanks he was ready to dismiss me, and the subject, as a matter of no consequence, when I ventured to ask his opinion as to the value of our researches.

"Well," he replied, "as I told you previously, the General does not place any reliance upon information of this character; we have had conflicting reports, and do not rely upon it."

"But," I said, "it is undoubtedly true that there are no rebels near us."

"But we have reliable information to the contrary, and more recent than yours."

This was indeed a stunner. How could it be. I was positive there had been no enemy near during the night, and mildly suggested that, if there were any Rebels there, they had come while I was confined in the Dutch Colonel's guard-house.

Porter merely laughed in a patronizing way, as he dismissed me, saying:

"You can make that report to Washington; it won't do here. We know all about Johnston."

"Well, one thing is sure, Johnston knows all about you, too."

I left headquarters in a frame of mind closely allied to frenzy. I was beginning to think that I must be crazy, because the general headquarter's atmosphere and style seemed to have about it an air of authority that could not be disputed; and when Porter said he had information, reliable and more recent than I had tried to give I began to feel that he must be right, and we all wrong.

Walking off, dejectedly, but again free to go as I pleased, I hunted up my companion of the night before, to offer any assistance in my power to secure his release from confinement. I found his company, and had a general consultation with him, in the presence of some line officers, in which it was agreed that our report of the situation was generally believed throughout the army; but, said my comrade:

"There were two other fellows out last night, and they came back right after we did, and reported that they had found a big Fort on top of a hill; that there were camp fires blazing all around it, and six men jumped up on the works and chased them two miles."

It flashed upon me in a moment, and I said, laughingly:

"Why they must be the two fellows we saw while in the Fort, and that you scared off when you got up on that log."

After a further comparison of notes, it was agreed by all that this was the more reliable and recent information General Porter had obtained. Our little smoky fire had been magnified into a hundred rebel camp fires, and the blunder of my comrade in mounting the parapet had turned to our benefit, in frightening off two of our own scouts. We were not aware, however, that we had chased them through the wet woods—it being our purpose and intent to run away from them; and we believed we were going in an opposite direction all the time.

I was abundantly satisfied with the night and day's experience; and leaving my friend to make any further explanations to General Porter, or headquarters, I availed myself of the opportunity to take an evening train, which carried me to Chambersburg, where among relatives and friends I was able to replenish my scanty wardrobe.

The following Sunday, First Bull Run was fought and lost.

There have been many reasons given the public, officially and otherwise, in explanation of this disaster, one of which has not been officially mentioned, and is in brief—that General Patterson, through his Chief-of-staff, persistently declined to avail himself of information concerning Johnston's movements, that had been voluntarily obtained, after some hardships, by a scout, who had been endorsed to him by the Secretary of War as being reliable and trustworthy.

I have not seen General Fitz-John Porter since July, 1861, that I know of. We all know he was a gallant soldier, whom I should honor as a native of my own state; but, without questioning his loyalty, I venture the opinion that General Patterson (who was 69 years old at that time) was by his (Porter's) influence or over-caution prevented from pressing General Johnston, as he had been ordered; and is, therefore, indirectly, responsible for Johnston's timely reinforcement of Beauregard, which made the rebel victory possible.

And I believe the same over-caution or influence was brought to bear on General McClellan at the critical hour at Antietam, and prevented his following up the victory at that time.

CHAPTER IX.

REPORTING TO GENERAL BANKS' HEADQUARTERS FOR DUTY—THE LIFE OF JEFF DAVIS THREATENED—CAPTURED AT HARPER'S FERRY—INTERESTING PERSONAL LETTERS CORROBORATING THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF THE "BOY SPY."

The Sunday of July, 1861 (21st), on which the first battle of Bull Run was being fought, found me quietly recruiting from the tiresome adventure in Virginia in the quiet little hamlet of Pennsylvania, in which I was born, situated at the foot of the Cove Mountain, almost within hearing of the cannon.

I had gathered from General Porter's manner as well as from his words, while talking to me only a day previous, that a battle was not imminent, and this opinion was seemingly confirmed by my own observations both in the Rebel country and while coming through General Patterson's army. There were, to my mind, no signs of a movement among our forces; the two armies were too far apart to be quarrelsome; our headquarters presented an appearance of satisfied security.

In our obscure village there were no telegraphs in those days, the mail facilities being limited to a daily trip of the relic or remnant of the old Bedford stage-coach, which rambled into town on the Monday evening following, and brought us the first intelligence of a battle—and a defeat which was being magnified every mile the old stage traveled into a terrible disaster.

This startling news spread about the village like wild-fire, reached me at the tea-table, and, to my untrained, impulsive disposition, had pretty much such an effect as the lighting the fuse of a sky-rocket. I went off like a sky-rocket—disappeared in the darkness that night, lost to the sight of my friends for months. The rocket hovered over the rebel hosts so long that I was almost forgotten in the excitement of the time. I came back as suddenly as I had left, like the stick from the rocket that drops down from above.

It is the purpose to tell in this chapter, for the first time, the secret story of those months in Rebeldom, which has remained a mystery even to my family for twenty-five years. I had never intended to print these experiences, but hoped that I might find time, when I should grow older, to prepare for my children only, a memorandum of the trip.

An hour after the receipt of the news, I was en route for the nearest railroad station, at Chambersburg, my first impression being that, as the rebels were victorious, they would, as a matter of course, move right on to Washington City and drive the Union officials off.

Entertaining this feeling, my first impulse was to get somewhere in their rear. I felt in my heart that something must be done to prevent Beauregard and Jeff Davis from driving us all out of the country, and I was frenzied enough at that time, by the excitement that was everywhere prevailing—overcoming the reason and judgment of the most conservative as well as the mercurial temperament—that, if an opportunity had presented itself, I might have been foolish enough to have attempted an assassination of Jeff Davis, sincerely believing, in my youthful enthusiasm and indiscretion, that such an act would serve to defeat their plans. That I entertained seriously and determinedly such a chimerical scheme will probably be surprising to those of my acquaintances now, but the confession will serve in a manner to explain some of my movements, which, at the time, puzzled even my best friends, who generously accounted for my queer actions by the indulgent—if not complimentary—reflection that I was a "reckless and adventuresome boy."

The same night I reached Chambersburg, and the next morning took the first train for Hagerstown, Maryland, where I learned there that Harper's Ferry was headquarters; and, as there were no public conveyances leading in that direction, in my eagerness to reach there I decided to walk ahead the same day.

I tramped out through the same neighborhoods in which our camps had been located only a few days before, finding them nearly all deserted, and in the evening reached a farmhouse on South Mountain, where, tired and sleepy after the fatigue and excitement of the day, I begged for shelter for the night, and was put to sleep in the garret with a son of the farmer, whom I found was in sympathy with the rebels.

Early the following morning I was again on foot, climbing the dusty mountain road. It was a long, tiresome walk, and, as I met with no signs of troops, I began to fear that I had gotten off the right road; toward evening my path led me through a valley or ravine, emerging from which I was suddenly brought into view of the river and hills about Point of Rocks, or perhaps it may have been near Sandy Hook. Here I found plenty of soldiers, who were dotted around the hills so thickly.

I had expected to report in person to General Fitz-John Porter, to gather further from him some advice as to the reliability of his more recent information about Johnston's escape. I learned that General Patterson had been relieved. General N. P. Banks was in command, and had his headquarters in a tent on a little plateau above, but convenient to the railroad track and the river, from which he could look into the Virginia hills, which were within rifle-shot of his tent.

I had no letter of introduction to General Banks, but, presuming upon my previous services, boldly ventured into his presence unannounced, except by the unarmed soldier who stood as an orderly outside of his tent.

I was invited into the tent, where I found the General had been lounging or dozing on his camp bed. Rising, as I entered, he apologized for the unkempt appearance of his quarters, shaking hands cordially as he invited me to a seat on a camp-stool.

Then sitting in front of me, looking straight into my eyes, I told him briefly my past experience with Patterson and Porter. He listened attentively and commented, in his affable way, on the disaster, and expressed, in a way that was most comforting to me, his belief that it would all end right anyway.

I explained to General Banks my supposed qualifications as a scout, being able to read the enemy's telegraphs, which immediately impressed him as quite an important feature, as it would enable me to procure reliable news from the highest sources of all information.

I again volunteered to enter the enemy's lines in the guise of a Maryland refugee and, if possible, attach myself to headquarters of Rebels at Manassas, or where there were telegraph instruments, without, of course, disclosing my knowledge of the mysterious art.

The General thankfully accepted my proposal, and seemed eager that the service should be undertaken at once. His words to me, uttered in that deep but pleasant voice so familiar to American people: "Well, now, I am right glad you have come to see me, sir."

After a moment's reflection, he continued: "I have no definite instructions now. I beg that you will be kind enough to come and see me in the morning again; in the meantime I will try and arrange a plan."

I presume the General desired—very properly—to make some inquiries as to my loyalty and past service. As I prepared to leave, he again took my hand, and in a kindly manner, which impressed me so pleasantly that I shall never forget it, as he bowed me out of his tent. "I am very glad too have met you, sir."

How different from the reception I received from General Patterson and his Chief-of-Staff. The balance of the evening I put in pleasantly enough after this agreeable reception in visiting the different camps in the neighborhood and in peering through the twilight over the Potomac toward the Virginia side, endeavoring to find a hole somewhere in the hills that I might get through safely.

After the tiresome tramp on the dusty Maryland Pike, on that terrible hot July day, I was glad enough when night came to accept the supper and lodging that were offered—for a consideration—in an old half-stone and half-frame house, situated close by the river bank.

The crowd of men who were gathered about the old house were dressing for dinner, or supper, out in the yard; using an old stump for a toilet stand and the lye soap (which had been manufactured by some sort of process through the barrel of ashes that stood on a sloping bench close by), and, throwing my hat and coat on the limb of a gooseberry bush, I plunged into the water, like the rest; but I reckon they all thought I was putting on airs when I declined to use the one towel that had served for all, using instead a dirty pocket handkerchief on my face.

The next morning I was out bright and early. Unfortunately for me, but perhaps better for the story, I was just too late to see the General, who had ridden off but a few minutes before I reached his headquarters on a general tour of inspection through the army. The orderly did not know when he would return, or, if he did, was not disposed to tell a stranger of his intentions; but, it was intimated that I should hardly be able to see him at headquarters again during the day.

As I turned to walk away, undecided as to the next step I should have to take, an officer observed in a jocular way: "You might see the General up there," as he pointed to the highest peak of the hill. He imagined that the unforbidding appearance of this height would deter me from an attempt at climbing it, but the hint was sufficient. I at once made up my mind, excelsior like, to crawl over the rocks and blackberry bushes to the very top of the mountain to find the General, and, if he were not there, I should at least have the satisfaction of being able to see all over the country without walking any further.

From the top of Maryland heights, while sitting alone a short distance in the rear of one of our masked batteries, the guns of which were pointed over the river so as to cover the broad plateau above the old town, I looked in vain for some appearance of rebels on the other side of the river. There was not to my eye, which I flattered myself was pretty good and educated to the sight of rebels, any appearance of life, either on the valley side or on the opposite mountain, which were quite heavily wooded.

I formed from that point of observation a plan to cross the river and climb up on the other hill or mountain, thinking, perhaps, I might have a more satisfactory outlook from that point.

Not finding the General, I retraced my steps down the mountain in the direction of the town of Harper's Ferry.

There was at that time a temporary railroad bridge over the Potomac, over which I was able to pass the guard on pretence of being a railroader. Once in the village, I looked about for an opportunity to get over the Shenandoah river, which was yet between me and the big hill I desired to climb.

I had fully determined in my own mind, after the experience with the running mate or companion of the former adventure, that I should not attach myself to anyone or permit any association in future movements, but the pleasure of meeting with a pleasant friend overcame my resolution, and about the first thing I did after becoming well acquainted was to propose that we should together go over the Shenandoah and climb that big hill, to try if we couldn't "see something" by daylight. My newly found chum eagerly assented to the proposal, and, as I have previously said, for me to decide was to act, in those days.

It was expected that we should be able to return before dark, and I hoped in an indefinite way that I might be able to bring back to General Banks, when I should see him in the evening, some information that would impress him with the idea that I was competent to undertake and to carry out the plan of going through our own and the enemy's lines to Washington.

In my first talk with General Banks, to whom I was an entire stranger, he had made a remark about a decision to issue no authority to go outside of his lines, to which I had replied that I did not ask any passes; that, if he wanted to avail himself of the service, I should be able to get outside ours and inside the Rebels' lines, and did not want to carry any paper passes.

My chum and I followed the same tactics in crossing the Shenandoah that we had practiced in crossing the Potomac on the former occasion. With an apparent intention of bathing we found a good place to "go in," as we boys used to say about swimming time; undressing in a careless way, we were soon splashing about in the shallow water in sight of our pickets. It was a hot, sunny July day, and at our bathing place the sun poured down upon that portion of our bare skin that was exposed above the water his fiercest rays. This fact served as a pretext to ask the guard's permission to cross over to the shade on the other side. The permission was reluctantly obtained.

Bundling up our clothes we waded over the slippery rocks, in sight of our picket on the shore. Once well over the river, which is neither deep nor wide, we puttered about the other shore long enough to allow any one who had felt disposed to watch our movements to become satisfied that we were only out for a little fun. During all this time, however, we had slowly, almost imperceptibly, moved further and further away; and, upon reaching a portion of the bank almost covered with willows and undergrowth, we silently stole away from the water, and, like a pair of guilty boys escaping from an orchard, we ran as fast as possible through the undergrowth along the side of a road which led up a little stream that emptied into the river.

We were again in Virginia, but this time in daylight; and, hastily putting on our clothes, I, for the first time, took note of the unfortunate circumstance that my comrade's clothes were all of the regulation blue of the Union army, which would be difficult to reconcile with our stereotyped story of being Maryland refugees, in case we should be captured.

We satisfied our fears on this point by the hasty conceit that we were not going to be caught on this trip, as we only proposed to climb to the top of the big hill.

Ascending Bolivar or London Heights is like climbing up the others, and has been well described. When we reached the summit, we found a clearing of a couple of acres which had the appearance of having been very recently occupied, and the discovery of the ashes and blackened places on the rocks where camp-fires had been—we knew not how recently—burning served to make us the least bit nervous. We were disappointed in the expected view of the rebel armies, as the heavy growth of trees in that direction wholly obstructed the view; but we were rewarded with a most satisfactory observation of our own troops and camps on the Maryland side of the river.

Satisfied with having scaled the mountain, and a little bit uneasy, we soon began our descent, taking a different course from that we had followed in coming up.

When we had about reached the road that leads along the water at the base of the heights, my chum startled me by grabbing frantically at my leg as I was about to climb over the fence into the road, shrieking, like a scared girl: "There's a man." And before I had time to look in the direction indicated, he continued, excitedly: "Great Scott! there's a whole lot of them."

He started to run back as fast as his legs would carry him, leaving me almost pinned to the fence with astonishment.

His movement had the immediate effect of causing a half-dozen armed men to rush suddenly from their ambush, straight down the road toward us.

My companion, in grabbing me by the leg as a fierce dog would a tramp getting over the fence, for the moment so startled me that I lost my head, and, thinking something was coming at us from behind, I jumped over the fence toward the danger while he ran off on the other side.

"THANK GOD, I'M SAFE AMONG MY FRIENDS."

On finding myself confronted by three Rebels in uniform, two of whom had guns, the third, being an officer, gesticulated in a threatening, inelegant sort of style with the hand in which he carelessly held a cocked revolver; I at once walked toward them and, with a suddenly assumed air of relief, said:

"Thank God, I am safe among my friends."

This vehement observation rather nonplussed the officer, who, seeing that I was unarmed, walked up to me and accepted my outstretched hand in a dazed sort of way. He hurriedly directed the men to follow my entreating comrade, saying, as they ran down the road:

"Remember, now, you are not to fire unless you meet a lot."

I was rejoiced to hear this, and at once told the officer that my comrade, like myself, had intended to come into their army, but he was scared and ran because he thought they were our own scouts.

"Are you both Yankee soldiers?"

I repulsed the base insinuation with scorn, and told him we were both dying to join the Rebel Army.

"But that fellow has on the blue uniform."

Sure enough, I had forgotten all about that, but told him that was no difference—that half the men in Banks' Army were only waiting a favorable chance to come over and join them. The officer, who was a conceited fellow, who had been placed in charge of the pickets or cavalry scouts on this outpost for the day, eagerly swallowed this stuff. It will be remembered that at this time—only a week after their victory at Bull Run—the Rebels were prepared to believe almost anything reported to them from our side and were, of course, somewhat lax in their scrutiny of refugees, who were actually going over the line daily to unite their fortunes with those of the South, whom they were sure after the first battle must be victorious.

We had quite a pleasant talk as we stood together by the roadside awaiting the result of the chase of my comrade. It was explained by the officer that their instructions were not to fire except in certain emergencies; the object of their being there was to quietly observe the operations of the Yankees from their points of lookout on the heights, from which a full view of everything transpiring on our side was to be had.

This was an item of news from the Rebel officer which I should like General Banks to have been advised of. He further astonished me by saying:

"We have been watching you two fellows all the afternoon; we saw you cross the river, and when you came up the hill our men up there came in and reported that you were two scouts, and could be captured, so I was sent down here to gather you in."

I was able to force what I am afraid was rather a sickly laugh at this exhibition of our "prowess," and, as a further earnest of our good intentions, I volunteered to accompany the officer down the road, with a view of meeting my running comrade and signaling him it would be all right to come in.

Accepting this service, we walked rapidly together in the direction taken by the two men with guns, but as all three had stopped to hear my story, my chum had probably been making good time along his side of the fence, which, with the undergrowth, had served to keep him out of sight, and had stretched the distance between him and the Rebels, but, as the river was still to ford, I feared, for my own safety, that he might yet be captured.

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.

As a further evidence of the correctness of my narrative, and with a view of adding interest to the story, I publish herewith a private letter from my brother, Spencer, who was at that time in the Military Telegraph Service. My aunt Ruth, to whom it was addressed, and who was a mother to us both, passed many sleepless nights on account of my wanderings, has recently resurrected some interesting testimonials.

Camp Union, near Bladensburgh, Md.,
September 9th, 1861.

Dear Aunt: By some unaccountable reason your letter was delayed. It was handed me by an "orderly" this evening. I presume it's beyond the possibility of a doubt that poor Joe was killed at Sandy Hook. My grief can better be imagined than described. None but those who have suffered the severing of ties of a loving brother's affection can form an idea of my heart's affliction. My dear sisters, how deeply and sincerely I sympathize with them in the deplorable loss of an ambitious brother. That letter must have almost broken Hatty's heart. It must have been a violent shock to father, but why should I so write and rouse within all of you the bitter renewal of your grief? We have for our support, that brother Joe fell nobly in the cause of his country, lamented by an affectionate and loving family, relatives and friends. It is to be hoped that when the keen sensibilities of our passions begin to subside that these considerations will give us comfort. I pray that the Almighty may give us (particularly father) fortitude to bear this severest of strokes, is the earnest wish of a

Brother in affliction, Spencer.

CHAPTER X.

AT BEAUREGARD'S HEADQUARTERS—ON DUTY AT MANASSAS.

I didn't report to General Banks that night—circumstances entirely beyond my control prevented me from doing so. I was, by the "fortunes of war," or my own carelessness, denied the privilege of proving to the General that I was "smart" enough to get through his own lines and back again from the enemy's country without the use of passes from his headquarters. If this should reach the eye of General Banks, he will, for the first time, read my official report of the scout, which I had proposed to him in July, 1861, and will, I am sure, in his courteous manner, accept, even at this late date, this apology or explanation for my failure to keep my engagement with him.

Luckily for me, at that particular time I did not have in my possession any passes from General Banks, or letter of introduction from the Secretary of War, endorsing me as a competent spy. These I had left with General Patterson a few days previously.

Leaving the two soldiers to further look after the road, in hope of enticing my friend in—not that they were so anxious for the person of a prisoner—but, as they said, it was important no one should escape to report the fact that a station for observation was being maintained on the heights.

Alongside of my officer I walked for quite a long distance, talking in a general way upon the subject which was then uppermost in everybody's mind—i. e., the recent battle of Bull Run. For good reasons, I heartily agreed with his absurd conclusions. I knew full well the importance of creating upon his mind the impression that I was a bona fide refugee, and with the instinctive shrewdness partly born of my former experience I was successful in fully satisfying the officer that the Southern army had secured another hearty supporter, or zealous recruit. It was scarcely possible to undo the thing at that time, as the whole South were wild in their enthusiasm after Bull Run, and to this fact I may partially ascribe my escape from detection and execution.

The only fear that I entertained was, that I might meet either with some Maryland refugees who might cross-question me too closely, or perhaps I might again encounter the Rebel Spy I had met at General Patterson's headquarters; or, worst of all, that some of those Pensacola troops, or Texas acquaintances, might have been transferred to Beauregard's army, and would recognize me.

A captive is always an object of curiosity. I must expect to be gazed upon, stared at, and scrutinized wherever I should be taken.

I might explain away any objections that would offer to the refugee story, as there was no evidence existing that I had recently acted the part of a scout; but the Fort Pickens episode could not be so explained. The mere discovery of my identity meant a speedy hanging, without the form of a court-martial.

I believe I have not yet tried to describe my personal appearance at that time.

I had, from a mere lad, been wearing my hair long, combed back of my ears; despite the jeering remarks of my companions, my "back hair" reached my shoulders, where, truth compels me to admit, it lay in better curls than Buffalo Bill's, Texas Jack's, or, more recently, that of "Jack Crawford," the cow-boy scout.

Probably my long hair was in part accepted by the rebels as an evidence that I naturally belonged to the South, where the style was more common than in the North. It will be remembered, too, in extenuation of my fancy, that I had spent the previous winter in Texas, the climate of which is favorable to the growth of hair on the cow-boys.

My dress, at the time of our surprise, consisted simply and only of a fine, colored, traveling shirt with open rolling collar, red loose necktie, dark trousers, and a coat of the same, topped off by a small, soft, slouch hat; of course, I had shoes which were pretty well worn, and my feet had become quite sore from so much walking. This was not a very complete wardrobe out of which to fashion a costume for a disguise.

My face had become very much sun-burned, and, in bathing, while exposed to the hot sun, my shoulders had become blistered, so that the flannel or cloth overshirt peeled the skin off in a most uncomfortable way.

Reaching the advance of the Rebel outposts, which were located at an old house—half farm and half tavern—situated on the bank of the little stream at the ford or point where the highway or pike crossed which led to Manassas, we found assembled quite a number of Rebel cavalry soldiers, who were entertaining in their exuberant, self-satisfied way, quite a crowd of civilians who had been attracted to the place.

Into this group of eager, inquisitive Rebels I was, to their surprise, introduced as a "prisoner who wanted to join our army."

It may be surmised that I had, with as great eagerness as themselves, anxiously glanced among the faces, that were all turned towards us as we approached, to discover if among them were any whom I had ever seen before.

Providence, on this occasion at least, was not "on the side of the heaviest battalion," but with the solitary "refugee," who breathed a sigh of relief upon failing to discover one familiar face.

Unfortunately for my peace of mind, there were among the civilian visitors to these soldiers one of those pompous Virginian 'Squires of middle age who, though attired in a fancy grey uniform coat and civilian's pants and hat, was not, I was informed, really in their service. The patronizing manner peculiar to this class of gentlemen was, by reason of his age, indulged by the young officer in command, who permitted him to dictate, like a country 'squire, the manner in which the "culprit" should be disposed of.

It was arranged by my captors, through this meddlesome old 'Squire's influence, that I should be escorted to General Beauregard as a prisoner, leaving for him or his officers to decide upon the advisability of accepting my story and services.

The pompous old Virginia militia Colonel was merely gratifying his own selfish vanity by securing me as his prey, proposed to take me in his buggy direct to the General, whom he wished to communicate with personally.

"How is it that your companion in the uniform ran away on the approach of our troops?" said the old wind-bag, addressing me in a manner so haughty that I immediately resented it, and replied in a tone that some of the bystanders rather enjoyed:

"Oh, he was one of the Bull Run fellows; I am not responsible for him."

I did not relish the idea of going into General Beauregard's presence in this old Colonel's charge, lest he might, in trying to magnify his own importance, so represent my capture as to create in the minds of the officers at headquarters a suspicion or doubt as to my motive.

The young officer was convinced that I was O. K., and to him I privately expressed the wish that he would not report me an unwilling prisoner, or that I had tried to escape, assuring him that if such had been my intention I could easily have accomplished it. He agreed with me, and, at my further request, actually gave me, privately, a little note to present in my own defense, if I should need it.

So it came about that I shared the hospitality of the Virginia gentleman's buggy, as we drove along the road that evening en route to General Beauregard's headquarters with a pleasant note of introduction from a Rebel officer in my pocket, in which was recited his belief that I had voluntarily entered the lines as a refugee.

We spent the night in that vicinity, at some neighbor's farmhouse.

When the old gentleman and I were again alone on the road, I began to work on his patriotism a little, but it was not exactly a success. His manner was not congenial at all. He had with him a fine English repeating rifle, which he placed between us, with the butt resting on the floor of the buggy, and, as we drove along that day, I had it in my mind for the first time in my life to commit a murder.

As we were slowly ascending one of the mountains, I remarked to the Colonel that I believed I'd walk up the mountain, stretch my legs, and relieve the horse for awhile, when he glanced at me and, with a hateful, overbearing sneer on his face, said:

"You wont get out of this buggy until I put you into General Beauregard's hands."

I felt a wicked sensation dart through me that I had never before experienced, and instinctively my own eyes rested on the gun; the Colonel saw my face, and reached for his gun not a moment too soon; my self-possession came to me, and I merely said:

"You're not driving a nigger now."

I still had my loaded pistol concealed in a belt under my clothes. I had acquired while in Texas the Southern accomplishment of learning its use, and was expert and quick enough to have put its contents in the blatant old fool's ear, and would probably have done so had I not been restrained by the fear that the report would bring about us a crowd of Rebels.

For an hour after this incident we drove along in sullen silence. I felt in my soul that I was being driven like a condemned criminal to the gallows, and this old Colonel was merely my hangman, whom I ought to shoot like a rat.

After cool reflection I concluded that, with the officer's note in my possession, I would be able to counteract any unfavorable impressions he might try to make. I had not attempted to commit any act in Virginia that he could prove which would operate against me. The only matter I had to fear was the discovery of my identity as the person who had played the spy in Florida; but as that was many hundred miles away, I felt that I was comparatively safe.

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.

Artillery was parked in shady places; the horses were not corralled close to the guns; in fact, everything was very much in the same disordered condition that I had observed in our army.

About an hour before sundown we reached Beauregard's headquarters. As we drove up to the fence the old man hailed a colored boy, and bade him tie his horse; then, turning to me with a smile of relief, he said:

"Here we are; get out!"

I obeyed with an alacrity that caused him to stare at me in wonder, as he stretched his sleepy legs and got out after me, walking beside me with his gun in hand until suddenly halted by a sentry on guard, to whom my Virginian said:

"I want to see General Beauregard," and proceeded to walk ahead, as if he was a privileged character, but the sentry called down the old fool's dignity by peremptorily ordering him to "halt," as he brought his gun to a carry. There were some sharp words spoken, but the guard understood his business, and gave the old man his first lesson in military etiquette, that no doubt lasted for all the war. An officer near by, who had been attracted by the slight rumpus, approached the sentry, who properly saluted him, and, in answer to the officer's questions, began to give an account of the trouble, but had barely begun to speak when the old farmer, swelling like a turkey-gobbler, ignoring the soldier, and endeavoring to talk over the head of the officer, in a loud voice said: "I want to see General Beauregard at once, and I'll have this fellow punished for insulting a gentleman."

The officer, who was a gentleman, mildly suggested that the man had been only doing his duty and obeying orders, but my friend's choler was up and, refusing all explanations, demanded an immediate interview with the General.

The officer now began to get mad and, in a commanding tone, inquired: "What is your business, sir, with the General?" to which the old gentleman replied: "I will explain my business when I see the General."

"Well, sir, you will have to give me your name and the nature of your business, and I will advise you as to the General's pleasure."

"My name, sir, is Colonel ——, of Virginia, by gad; and my business is to turn over a prisoner whom we caught prowling in our county, sir; there he stands, right there, sir."

Turning to look at me, the officer said to the Colonel: "Well, you should escort your prisoner to the provost-marshal. General Beauregard is not entertaining prisoners."

After a few more passages at arms it was settled that I should be left in charge of the guard while the Colonel and the General had an interview.

While he was telling his story to General Beauregard, which, I suspect, referred more to the "insult" to himself than to my dangerous character, the officer, who had returned to me, politely said something about "old fools." I agreed with him, and took occasion to add my mite of experience with the old fool, and saying that I had merely come from a patriotic impulse from my own home to do something for the country, but had been treated with so much indignity by this old man I was sorry I had left home.

In his state of mind my interpretation of the story had a most agreeable effect, which was further strengthened by the note from the officer who had captured me. As soon as he read this, turning to me, he politely asked to be excused, as he returned to the General who was being bored to death by my Colonel.

In a moment more General Beauregard and my Colonel made an appearance, the latter still talking earnestly. The General was bare-headed, his coat unbuttoned, and presented to my vision the appearance of a pleasant Jewish gentleman. He looked at me while the old gas-bag was exhausting itself, but did not speak a word either to me or the Colonel until my young officer spoke up and said:

"I think, General, I had better relieve this gentleman of the responsibility of the care of the young Marylander," at the same time handing to the General the note I had given him.

General Beauregard again looked at me as he finished reading it, and, turning to the officer, said:

"Yes, yes, that will do."

And bidding the Colonel a good evening, as he excused himself, walked off.

It must not be thought that the Virginia Colonel believed, or for an instant suspected my true character; his only object was to secure some attention for himself by pressing me upon the General personally; and his own egotism defeated his purpose, to my very great relief.

The Colonel being thus summarily disposed of, the officer, who introduced himself to me as an aide to General Beauregard, began to apologize for my ungracious reception in the Southern Army.

I told him my desire was to connect myself with some of the Baltimore refugees, and I was informed that I should have the opportunity soon; but at that time I think there were no distinct Maryland organizations in their Army. When I suggested that, as I was without money, I must work to earn a living, I meekly observed that being a railroader at home I should like an opportunity to be employed somewhere in that capacity, as I should be able to do justice to myself and my employers better there than elsewhere until I could be able to unite with the army.

"Just the thing; we need experienced men on the roads here now as much as we require soldiers," and, turning to an orderly, he directed him to accompany me to a certain official who had charge of the railroad transportation with the request from General Beauregard that his services be availed of, as he is an experienced railroad man.

It was after dark when I became finally located, and, singular as it may seem, I was that night an occupant of a couch in the railroad depot, within sound of the telegraph instruments operating between Manassas and Richmond, and this by express authority of General Beauregard, instead of being a prisoner in a guard-house waiting for execution.

I have been careful to give all the details of this day at perhaps tedious length, not that it was interesting, but because of the bearing on the subsequent events, which I believe are as remarkable as anything yet recorded in the secret service of the war.

CHAPTER XI.

IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS INTERCEPTED AT MANASSAS, WHICH ESTABLISHED THE FACT THAT THE REBEL ARMY HAD NO INTENTION, AND WERE NOT ABLE TO ADVANCE AFTER MANASSAS—THE REBEL ARMY DEMORALIZED BY SUCCESS, AND TWENTY-FIVE PER CENT. ABSENT FROM EPIDEMIC—ON THE FIELD AFTER THE BATTLE—OBSERVATION INSIDE REBEL CAMPS—TALKING WITH RICHMOND BY WIRE—CAPTURED BY REBEL PICKET IN SIGHT OF THE SIGNAL LIGHTS AT GEORGETOWN COLLEGE.

I was always particularly careful to conceal from every one with whom I was in contact when scouting that I was an expert telegrapher. As such I was able, without any apparent effort at listening on my part, or in any way indicating by my manner that I was paying any attention to the monotonous clicking of the instruments, to interpret every word or signal that they gave out.

I had studied this part carefully, realizing fully that upon my successful concealment of this accomplishment everything depended.

I now found myself—through a train of events that seemed almost providential—in exactly the position inside the Rebel armies from which I could best accomplish the objects that I had set out to undertake when I first presented the Secretary's letter to General Patterson and General Porter.

I might have been there before the battle, if Fitz-John Porter had not delayed me. A few days after, I was at the old shanty of a railroad depot from which the trains and telegraph communication were had with Richmond, Gordonsville, and the Valley; the armies of Generals Beauregard and Johnston were encamped some distance in advance of this point, but my situation was exactly suited to my purpose, which was to intercept communication over the wire to and from Richmond between the Rebel Government and their Generals in the field. I might learn more by sitting still or loafing around listlessly in one day at that point than could be accomplished by a week's tramp through every camp of the Rebel Army.

When I reached the railway station, in charge of one of General Beauregard's orderlies, it was quite dark. The gentlemanly Rebel soldier, at the direction of the staff officer, escorted me thither from headquarters, politely presented me to the agent or officer in charge, as a "Maryland refugee, whom General Beauregard had sent to him to make use of until such time as he could join with some other Marylanders, who were to come in soon." I was also further recommended as having been connected with railroads in the North, and, continuing, he said:

"Mr. Wilmore" (I had assumed my mother's maiden name) "is willing to undertake any work you may have for him."

"Yes," I spoke up; "I shall be obliged for any employment that will enable me to even earn my rations until I can meet with some friends, whom I expect."

I was cordially received and hospitably entertained as one of the exiled refugees from "Maryland, my Maryland;" in fact, I became somewhat embarrassed by the generous attentions that the attachés about the place were disposed to give me, on account of my being a youthful exile from home.

The station-house was an old frame structure, such as one sees on second-class railways in a new country. One portion was assigned to the offices, in which were crowded together the ticket-sellers, the agent, clerks, and the three telegraph operators. There had not, of course, entered into the plans of the builder of the road and station-houses any calculations for the increased facilities demanded by the presence of a large army at that point, and, necessarily, everything was exceedingly cramped and crowded, which uncomfortable fact served all the better for my purposes.

There was a squad of Rebel soldiers detailed at the depot for the protection of property and to guard the employés. The measly old shanty was more correctly termed a "depot" than are some of those elegant railroad structures which have recently been erected over the country, which, properly speaking, are "stations," even if located at a city terminus—a depot being correctly defined as a storehouse, or base of supplies for an army.

This depot, like all the country stations, had a broad platform around two sides of it. At the rear of the office portion was a window looking out on this platform. Inside of the office, against the wall, immediately under this window, was an old deal table or shelf, on which was placed two complete sets of Morse instruments, while scattered about over this desk in a telegraphic style was a lot of paper neatly done up in clips, an old inkstand, half a dozen pens, short pieces of lead pencils, while behind the instruments a meerschaum pipe nestled in a cigar box half filled with tobacco. There were a couple of glass insulators for paper weights, and an immense six-inch glass jar, or battery cup, which the operators used for a drinking cup.

The fact that this cup had recently composed part of his battery and contained a strong solution of nitric acid, did not, that I ever noticed, deter the thirsty telegrapher from taking a long swig out of it after "Jimmy," the little messenger, should bring it in full of water fresh from the spring.

The wires, covered with woven thread, were leading down the sides of the window, under the table, where they were taken up in an inexplicable net, and drawn through gimlet holes in the desk, and curled into their proper place in the instruments.

One of these instruments communicated with all the railroad stations on toward Gordonsville and the valley; the other was the direct line of communication with Richmond, and as this machine did most of the business, its voice, or tone, was permitted to sound the loudest, and partially drowned the other; but if an operator's educated ear detected the signal for attention from the railroad instrument, he could, by a mere twitch of the finger, accord it the prominent place, until its wants were attended to.

All the telegraph operators engaged there were clever gentlemen, who were, of course, as full of the Southern enthusiasm as were their soldiers, and to the end gave to their cause that zeal and devotion, protecting, as far as lay in their power, the important secrets and confidences which necessarily passed through their hands, without a single instance of betrayal of the trust.

Like the telegraph corps of the Union army, they served without rank, and for small pay, and no hope of achieving for themselves any of the glory of war. To-day the army telegraphers are not even accorded the privilege granted enlisted men and teamsters. Their names are, unfortunately, not enrolled among those of the "Grand Army."

Of course, I cultivated the friendship of the boys; I flattered myself that I knew some of their vulnerable points and was able to approach them in the proper way.

What operator has not been "made sick" by the stereotyped observation of visitors, who so often observe, with a superior air, perhaps, while he is showing his girl the telegraph office for the first time, while questioning the courteous and long-suffering operator as to the never ending "curiosities of the telegraph?"

"I once began to learn to telegraph, and knew the alphabet, and could write ever so many words, but I gave it up."

Too bad they all give it up. I've heard the remark in my time on an average of about once a week for twenty-five years, from educated men, too, and have been just that often made sick at the stomach. Any school boy can learn the alphabet from his book on philosophy; so he can learn the alphabet of the Greek, but it requires close application for months to make a mere "operator," and it usually takes years to make a telegrapher, while those who have studied the art and science of electricity longest say they know the least of its wonderful possibilities.

The very first act on my part was to question in this way the operator who was on duty the next morning. I had proposed to the station-master to sweep out for him, and endeavored, in a general way, to make myself a man of all work about the place, so that I might be allowed to remain there instead of being put on the road as a brakeman.

With a broom in my hand, I observed to the operator, who was at that moment leaning over and peering under his desk cleaning his local battery, or rather bossing an old negro who was down on his knees trying to do this work for him: "I came near being an operator once."

I had not time to say that I had learned the alphabet when the young man straightened himself up and pleasantly observed: "The hell you did."

I turned my back and began sweeping vigorously, and, if the young man had seen my face, it would have shown a suppressed laugh instead of anger.

That remark fixed him. I know that he for one would never suspect me of being an operator. As the old colored uncle was not doing his work properly at the local, I volunteered to help; and, taking hold of the wires, I handled them in a clumsy way that was amusing to myself, and, under his direction, for my willingness to aid, I was told that I should have the nasty job of cleaning battery every day after that.

The first day passed without anything of especial interest occurring until about sundown, when a message which I had not heard was received for "headquarters."

It was the duty of one of the mounted orderlies to deliver all messages, but at that time there did not happen to be any orderly about, and, noting their hunt for one, I volunteered to perform the duty and on foot. My services were accepted without question, and I became the bearer of a dispatch to the Rebel headquarters.

The operator placed in my hands an enveloped message for an officer whose name I have forgotten, but it was addressed to the "Headquarters of the Army," remarking, as he carelessly handed it to me: "It's an important message from Richmond and must be answered right away, or I should let it lie over until one of those orderlies got back, because it's an awful long walk from here."

Anxious to get the important paper in my hands, I did not think or care for that at all, and told him with an earnestness that I could hardly suppress that I'd rather walk a little than lay around there idle so much, especially as I hoped by getting out to be able to meet some of my Maryland friends in the camps. They all looked upon my proposal as being prompted by my zeal or my "willingness" to be of any service possible to the cause generally and the telegraph people personally.

The Rebel armies had been advanced somewhat during the few days. We all know how difficult it is to find a certain regiment or brigade which we had left perhaps in a snug camp in a well-known location only the day previous, rigged up and beautifully laid out and decorated as if they intended to make it a winter quarters, but had been suddenly ordered during the night, perhaps, to some distant point on a picket detail or wagon guard. These sudden changes in the camps and of the headquarters to a straggling cavalryman or infantryman seem to alter the entire topography of the country in one day, and is very confusing to anyone.

I concluded, however, to take the general course which had been indicated, and to depend on further inquiries as I went along.

With this important dispatch in my pocket, my curiosity burning with an intense desire to learn its contents, I started off briskly, determining in my usual reckless manner that, if it should turn out to be important, that I'd deliver it to our headquarters, instead of to the Rebel's, that night. It did not in those days occur to me very often that there might be obstacles in my path. I presume that I felt if there were that, as a matter of course, I should be able to overcome or crush any attempted interference with my plans.

I had not gone far when I was startled out of my reverie by a "helloa," from the rear. Looking around in a frightened way, as if I had been detected in the very act of opening the envelope, as the subject was in my mind, I saw trotting up after me a neatly-dressed soldier on horseback, whom I recognized on a closer approach as one of the orderlies detailed for duty at the railroad station.

His laughing question assured me that I was not to be arrested, and, recovering myself, I was able to receive him calmly and pleasantly, as he said:

"I got back shortly after you had left, and they sent me out to relieve you. I'll take that dispatch out; why, it's five miles almost; we're much obliged to you, though."

I rather reluctantly handed over the envelope, which, perhaps luckily for me, had not been tampered with; the natty orderly slipped it under his belt and, after a few more pleasant words, rode off.

In a disappointed mood I retraced my steps to the telegraph station, walking along at a much more leisurely gait than when starting out. I had the leisure to think over my future operation, and before I had returned to the office, had about resolved in my own mind that there was not any use in longer staying about there. But, remembering my experience at Fort Pickens and in Patterson's army in getting into our own lines from that of the enemy, my mission in both cases being misunderstood and my object mistrusted by our own officers, because I had only my own word to support my reports, I fully determined that, without regard to the risk of carrying papers, I should not again return to our lines without taking with me some documentary or other proof to sustain my observations. I had thought, while in possession of the official dispatch, what a pleasant gratification it would be to my old friend Covode to be able to show him an intercepted dispatch from Richmond to the commander of the Rebel armies in the field; and as the thought of this performance dwelt in my brain as I walked along, I formed a hasty plan, which I believed I could mature and carry into effect—of securing from the files or papers in the telegraph office a number of copies of the most important dispatches, either in the handwriting of Generals Joseph E. Johnston or Beauregard, addressed to Richmond, or at least signed by them officially.

At the particular time during which I was at this point, it seemed to me that the burden of the wires was the messages of inquiry for the sick and wounded, mixed up with florid dispatches of congratulation, coupled almost always with expressions of the great possibilities of the South.

There were but few official messages of any importance that I was able to hear; those carried to and fro by the orderlies, and to which I gave my personal attention in a quiet way, would turn out to be generally some Quartermaster's or Commissaries' orders or requisitions, and I became nervous and tired over the strain or tension I had been obliged to maintain in order to overhear the instruments in the midst of the confusion always existing about the place.

As the telegraph table was jammed up tightly against the board wall of the house, under the window, it became my favorite place for loafing when outside of the office. I could sit on the board platform and, with my back against the boards under the window distinctly hear every word that went over the wires, the thin partition between my head and the inside answered as a sounding-board, really helping to convey the signals by vibration.

If the reader is anxious to try an experiment, let him place an ear against even a thick wall and allow some person with a penknife handle to tap or knock ever so softly, but quickly and sharply, in imitation of a telegraph instrument's click, and you will be astonished at the distinctness with which the wall will carry the sound like a telegraph wire.

There was always about the place a lot of idle loafers—Rebel soldiers off duty, who naturally gravitated toward the railroad stations, where the little stores or sutlers were usually to be found, dealing out commissary whisky and tobacco.

Every day, and for every train, there would be crowds of sickly-looking soldiers at the station in care of friends, who were taking them to the trains for their homes. Dear me! I recall it as if it were but yesterday, how the hundreds of poor fellows looked as they were helped aboard the crowded cars by their poor old fathers, or perhaps younger brothers. I always associate in my mind a sick Rebel, with his big eyes and sallow face, with a resemblance to a crazy tramp one sees sometimes nowadays, injured while stealing a ride on a freight train, gazing at everything in a stupid sort of way, clothed in a pair of butternut pants and coat, and big gray blanket over his shoulders even in that August sun. I saw lots of them go away from Manassas that I felt sure would never return to trouble us. They were not all sick, not by any means; some of the chaps that gathered about our place were about as lively and fractious as one meets at an Irish picnic.

One evening while sitting in my favorite place under the window, apparently dozing, but wide enough wake to take in every sound of the instrument which I knew emanated from the fingers of the operator at Richmond, my quick ear caught a message addressed to a prominent official. As it was being spelled out rapidly, promising something rich in the way of news development, I was eagerly straining every nerve and sense to catch every word of it. The instrument had ticked out the name and address, which had first attracted my attention, and I had read—"We have information from Washington that Banks—" when some big fellow among the crowd on the platform, of course not knowing of my intense earnestness at that moment, began a jig-dance on the board platform; and as his boots were at least number nine, and he weighed 200 pounds, of course the vibrations from that source smothered the other sounds. So intent and eagerly had I fixed myself on catching that message, and was so absorbed in my purpose, that, when the fellow made his first jump, I impulsively cried out: "Keep still a minute."

This was a dead "give away," or would have been to any person who had known anything of the telegraph business and my recent connection with the place; but, quickly recovering myself, I said, "All right; I thought the operator was calling me."

He went on with his dancing but I lost the message.

I afterward carelessly walked inside and tried, without exciting any suspicion, to ascertain what the information about Banks amounted to. I was not successful at the time, but kept the matter in my mind constantly during the evening, and the more I thought about it the more eager I became to know its purport.

I was satisfied fully, from personal observation, that there was no thought of an advance on Washington. I could see from the number of leaves of absence, and the great crowds of soldiers leaving by every train, that no forward movement was then contemplated. Besides this, I had heard on the wire message after message of an official character from quartermasters, commissaries and others interested in the movement of an army, of sufficient character to satisfy me of any projected advance. I decided to go to Washington and report thus much.

It had been arranged that, as Beauregard (or Johnston) had advanced his line to near Fairfax Court House, the telegraph office would be moved the next day, so as to be more convenient.

Late in the night, when the only one on duty in the office was the operator with a guard or sentry outside, I lay on the floor of the office affecting sound sleep, but wide-awake. Knowing that it was the last opportunity to get hold of any papers, I became anxious and almost desperate. A long message had been sent to "S. Cooper, Adjutant-General, Richmond," giving a full and detailed account of an epidemic that had apparently broken out in the army. The dispatch was important I knew, from the fact of its being addressed to S. Cooper, who I knew was Adjutant-General for Jeff Davis, and was, I think, signed by Dr. Cartright. It was quite long; the only part of it which I distinctly remember was the astonishing statement that twenty-five per cent., or one-fourth, of the Rebel Army were sick or unable to do any active duty on account of this epidemic of dysentery or diarrh[oe]a. This was an important admission in an official form, and I decided that it was the message in writing that I must carry with me to Washington. I observed carefully where the operator placed the original copy after it had been sent.

It was his duty to have remained there all night, prepared to receive or send communications that might chance to come, but we all know how soundly the night-owls can sleep while on duty, and I knew, or hoped, that this young fellow would soon take his chance and drop asleep, when I could abstract that Cooper message from his files.

I did not have to wait for him to sleep; he did better than that for me; he went out of the office and left me inside alone, and I, moving vigorously, with one eye watched his every movement; he further favored me by turning all his lights down before leaving. I inferred that his purpose (as all was quiet on the wire) was to go to his bunk and take a regular sleep like a Christian and a white man, and not like a common soldier. I heard his footsteps on the long platform grow fainter and further off, and then the sound disappeared as he jumped onto solid ground. Now was my chance to get that message.

Realizing that it might be my only opportunity, I quickly determined to take the risk of his returning soon and, perchance, missing the message from his file—it being conspicuous because of its bulky appearance. I silently stole up to the desk and slipped the big piece of paper from his hook and put it—not in my pocket, not by a good deal—but I carelessly laid it "aside," where I would be able to reach it, and where the operator could find it if he should return and take a notion to hunt it up.

Pleased with my success, and emboldened by the continued absence of the operator, I thought of looking further for a copy of the message about "Banks" that I had heard come over the wires that afternoon, but abandoned it, remembering that, as it was a received message from Richmond, that probably there was no copy of it retained in the office and the original had been delivered.

Everything seemed to become oppressively as still and quiet as death outside—the office was dark; the instrument only ticked an occasional "call" from "Rd;" but as the operator was not there to answer the "call" the "Rd" operator no doubt thought him asleep, and with that feeling of fraternity and consideration for which the craft are noted, the man at "Rd" undoubtedly turned in himself. It's probable the feeble call was merely a desire to assure himself that the man at the other end was drowsy and ready to go to sleep. I understood all their little tricks. I had been there myself often, and, as I lay on that floor, I fully sympathized with the boys.

Feeling that it was to be almost my last hour in the telegraph service of the Rebels at Manassas, I became bold and reckless enough at my success, and the hope of getting away soon, to undertake a very foolish piece of business.

In the darkness, which comes just before daylight (when I should leave), I learned the Cooper message. At the same moment, almost involuntarily, I placed my hand on the "key" of the telegraph instrument and softly called, "Rd-Rd-Rd," several times; there was no answer to my first feeble call. The operator was probably asleep. I was turning away, abandoning the attempt, when I was thrilled through and through by the click of the instrument answering in a slow, sleepy way, "I-I-I," which is the affirmative signal in answer to a call for attention to receive a message. Glaring about wildly in the darkness in search of the voice of the Rebel spectre I had aroused, and who was speaking to me from Richmond, I took hold of the key and said, in nervous haste and desperation:

"What was that message you sent about Banks?"

There was a moment's silence. "Rd" did not seem to comprehend, and made the telegraphic signal for interrogation (?) or repeat. I said more deliberately:

"That message about Banks—is there anything important?"

"Oh, yes; why, you sent the answer to that."

"I forgot it."

"Yes," he answered; that "a Confederate Company could take care of Banks."

"O. K., O. K."

I had just laid down when footsteps were heard advancing toward the office door, and, in another moment, to my great relief, not the operator, but the colored servant or porter, tumbled in for an hour's sleep before it was time to sweep and clean up the office preparatory to the coming day's work. There was no more sleep for me. I was wide-awake to the importance of getting away from there as soon as possible. With the intent of throwing everybody off their guard, or to avoid any suspicion that might possibly attach to my sudden departure, I had made up, and had been careful to tell all the listeners I could get the day previous, that I was going out to Fairfax C. H. to find some friends whom I had understood were in camp there, and I might be away all day and night. Also, that I was tired of civil life about the railroad and anxious to enter the army, and would do so if I found my friends.

I knew that the operator who had been on duty, or supposed to have been on duty that night, would be relieved by the regular day man in the morning, so, of course, the man coming on duty would not be likely to know anything about the night messages, or to miss any messages that he himself had not sent. I therefore took the last opportunity to collect from the files of the office several interesting "documents," which I knew would be valuable souvenirs to show my friends when I should get back to Washington.

Early in the morning I secured a note from the Superintendent requesting a pass through the army for myself, to enable me to look up a friend. With a few further words of good-by to one or two companions, with whom I had been so singularly associated for a few days, I left the place, with the expectation of being able to reach Washington the same night.

The distance was but twenty miles, I think, to Alexandria. My plan was, during the daytime to travel openly under protection of my pass, in a course leading to the front. From the best outlook that I could reach, I hoped to place myself convenient to some unguarded point, through which I could escape from the Rebels, and in safety reach our own lines under cover of the darkness. It was not a particularly dangerous undertaking at that time, because the Rebels—officers and soldiers—whatever may be said to the contrary, were demoralized, and had become quite careless and almost indifferent to their surroundings.

I was now going into the very heart of the Rebel army. I think that I saw all that was to be seen in a day's scout. They had, what I thought at the time, an awful lot of cannon; and cavalrymen in bright gray uniforms were flying about everywhere, mounted on their own fine horses, and stirring up a dust in such a way as to impress me with the idea that the woods were full of horsemen. The infantry camps were, for the most part, pleasantly located; in fact, everything looked brighter from the midst of the army than it had from its rear; but there was everywhere present—along the roads, or in the yards of convenient houses—the same groups of sick-looking soldiers and officers, who were probably awaiting their turn to get home to die.

There were numerous fortifications, earthworks and masked batteries to be seen, and when I got on to the battlefield of Bull Run what a disgusting smell filled the air; the very atmosphere seemed to be thick and heavy with the odor of half-buried and half-burned horses and mules, the bones of which were to be seen in many places covered with carrion crows, which would fly off making their ugly noises as they hovered about in a way to make the heart sick. You all know how we used to "bury" the dead artillery and cavalry horses, by simply piling a few fence-rails over the bodies and then setting fire to the pile, and then ride off and leave the coals of the fire baking the carcass. Whew! the smell of those half-burned old horses sticks in my nostrils even after twenty-five years.

I have not much to say of the many poor fellows whose toes were to be seen above ground; and now and then a piece of blue cloth showed through the thin covering of earth, and one hand laid above the grave, from which the fingers had been actually rotted or eaten off. It's an ugly subject to write or think about now, and I dismiss it from my mind with the same feeling of disgust and sickness that I experienced that day I walked along the fields and fences in August, 1861. Under the pretence of looking for a sick comrade, whom I pretended might have died at one of the hospitals or private houses in that direction, I moved about unmolested. There were plenty of civilian visitors beside myself, who were readily granted the privilege of going over the battlefield; their army friends were glad of an opportunity to escort them, so it was not thought at all out of the way for me to be prowling about there alone in search of a sick or perhaps a dead friend. In this way I got beyond the battlefield without any trouble, and along the railroad toward the station from which a road leads up to Fairfax Court House. Here I began to encounter some difficulties in the way of guards and sentries which were placed about the railroad bridges and at the cross-roads. Their purpose was, as a general thing, I imagined, to prevent their own soldiers from roaming or straggling about too much.

I knew that the railroad track would lead me in the most direct route to Alexandria, and soon to our army on that line; but I understood, also, that it would be more carefully patrolled and guarded than were the country roads; and for this reason I preferred the woods in which to make my final dash for liberty, and the Union, and home.

The critical moments in a scout's experience come just at this point—after successfully passing beyond one line and before reaching the other; then occurs the time when capture means his sure detection, either as a deserter or a spy, with its terrible punishment; and it is extremely difficult to tell from appearances whether those you meet or see are the friends you hope to find or the enemies you desire to leave behind.

I had traveled openly and boldly all day through the Rebel Army, carrying inside the lining of my cap the official papers I wished to get through. I had placed them in my hat because I calculated that, in case of a pursuit and probable capture, I might be able accidentally to "lose" the hat in a way that would not attract any particular attention, and a search of the regulation place for a spy to carry papers—in the shoes—would reveal nothing to implicate me. Night and darkness was rapidly coming on, yet I continued boldly to advance right along to the front, and, in the gloaming, I reached a little house setting back from the road, where I applied for supper and lodging. There were several soldiers about the yard, and officers were inside the house, as I judged from seeing their horses tied in the barnyard. An old bushwhacking proprietor, to whom I addressed myself, said that he couldn't keep me, as these officers had engaged the only accommodations he had. Turning to the officers I explained in a plausible manner that I had been hunting all day for a sick comrade, who had been left at a private house; that I was unable to find him—his name and regiment I was then able to furnish, knowing very well from their distance back, where I had located them, these men would not detect me—and as I was too tired and sick to go back that night, I must rest till morning, and so I would take a bed in the barn. I showed my request for a pass, across the face of which I had carefully endorsed in bold handwriting, in red ink, before leaving the office, the official words, "Approved, R. Chisholm, A. D. C."

That was a clear case of forgery, but "All's fair in love or war," and "desperate cases require desperate remedies."

The officers were of that kind who are easily impressed by an endorsement, especially if it is written across the face of the papers in red ink; and without any further question I was invited to sit down while a warm supper was being prepared for them.

I gathered from their conversation that the Rebel outposts were still some distance beyond. Though their own regiment was on this picket duty, their presence in the house was explained by the sickness of the younger of the two officers, the older having brought him in off the picket-line. There were also in addition to this line of pickets, a cavalry detachment that were supposed to be constantly moving up and down the roads in front of or between the two armies. So I was still a long way from our lines, and had yet some serious obstacles to overcome.

It wasn't exactly a pleasant evening for me, although I was so near home again. I lay there in that hay-loft or horse-shed, planning for the last dash for liberty; I knew that I must not attempt to move out of the barn until everybody was sound asleep; I had also some fear of a couple of dogs, that I'd seen running about the house rousing the folks when I should stir; I realized that I had a serious night's tramp ahead of me; my path must necessarily lead me over the fields and through the woods in tiresome detours that would be necessary in avoiding the road. For this reason I was anxious to make an early start from the barn; and just as soon as everything became quiet I silently groped my way out of the loft and slid myself down on the manure pile; crouched a moment to nervously listen and learn if the way was clear, and not hearing a sound of life, I started off cautiously on the last quarter-stretch of my night run for "liberty or death."

Keeping to the fields and woods, but in sight of the fence along the road as a guide, for some distance without meeting anyone or the hearing of a sound except the crickets and frogs, I became more emboldened and climbed over the fence into the road, striking out at a lively gait down a long hill. At the bottom of this hill, or rather in the valley between two hills, flowed a little stream which was spanned by one of those old-fashioned stone bridges. When I came close I discovered that a sentry was standing on it. I thought it was a picket; I could discern a moving object that looked to me through the darkness sufficiently like a soldier and his gun, to cause me to get back over the fence and make rapid tracks through the field to his flank. Almost exhausted, I found myself on the bank of the same little stream at a point where there was neither bridge or pickets.

I had learned enough about the military way of doing things to understand that, topographically, this little stream of water probably represented the Rebel picket-line, and I surmised that if I were able successfully to pass this point, that I should meet with no further danger from the infantry, and that cavalry could easily be avoided by keeping away from the roads, as I could travel over the routes where the horses could not be used.

I waded right in fearlessly; there was but little water running, but, oh dear! there was lots of mud concealed under the little bit of water, and when I pulled out, on the other side, I had gained several pounds in weight which had to be carried along up the next hill by a pair of legs already nearly exhausted. I got over that hill and passed down into another valley, and had, as before, become so emboldened by not meeting with anything in my path to relieve myself of the extra labor of climbing fences and crawling over logs, as well as scratching through briar bushes and tramping ploughed fields, I again took to the road.

All that day and most of the night I had now been going steadily in one direction, as I believed toward our lines, which I had figured could not be more than twenty miles distant from my starting point in the morning. Feeling that I could not be far from rest and glorious relief from the dreadful strain or suspense in which I had placed myself since leaving the barn, I recklessly pushed along the open road. Up to that point I could have retreated and saved myself, but now that I had gotten outside of the lines, no explanation would answer, if I were captured.

I was so fully satisfied that I was outside the Rebel lines and became so exhilarated with the feeling that came over me upon the thought that the next soldier I should meet would be our own boys in blue, that I started up the hill at a brisk dog-trot, feeling almost as fresh as when starting out in the morning.

This road was through a strip of dense pine woods. You all know how dismally dark the path seems which leads through a deep and dark, lonely wood on a cloudy night. I felt, as I forged along, like the ostrich with her head in the sand, that, as "I could see nobody, nobody could see me," and was feeling comfortable enough, notwithstanding the dreary loneliness of the time and place, to have whistled Yankee Doodle, even although I was not out of the woods.

I wasn't afraid of the Black-Horse Cavalry in that darkness and gloom, because I knew very well that afoot I could easily hear the approach of horses along the road in time to get out of the way by running to the adjacent dark woods. In my mind I planned my forthcoming interview with the surprised officers of our army, whom I would soon meet face to face.

It's a rule or law that scouts or spies must report direct to the General commanding, and not talk to anyone else. I was going to do better than this, and report to the President and Secretary of War, and show the evidence that I carried—that there were twenty-five per cent. of the Rebel Army sick with this epidemic, while probably another twenty-five per cent. were absent on sick leave or straggling, and no advance was possible, while an attack by Banks on their rear would demoralize them all badly.

"Halt!"

That's the word I heard come from the darkness and interrupted my plans, which shot through me as if it were uttered by a ghost or spirit from another world, and put me in a tremor of dismay. The voice came from the side of the road, and from behind. I was so taken by surprise that I could not at the instant see the object that spoke like a deathknell this dreadful word.

"HALT!"

In another instant a soldier in a blue uniform appeared, pointing his gun at me, as he said "Stand there!" Then calling to a comrade, who had evidently been asleep, as he did not immediately answer, I recovered my voice sufficiently to say to the soldier in the blue blouse:

"You scared me half to death, until I saw your uniform."

He replied to my observation:

"Yes; where did you come from?"

I had not yet seen his face distinctly, but his voice and dialect at once aroused my doubts, and again put me on my guard, and I said:

"I'll tell you all about it when your officer comes," and I braced for a run.

In another moment the rattling of a saber was heard, coming from the direction of the woods, and, peering through the darkness into the grove, I was able to distinguish the outlines of a house.

When the officer with his rattling scabbard got up to us I was almost paralyzed to see him dressed in the grey uniform of a Confederate cavalry officer. Addressing me courteously, he said:

"What in the name of all that's good brings you out on this road on such a dark night, disturbing our sleep?"

He laughed, as if he thought it a good joke on himself; it was only a trifling little laugh, but it gave me some encouragement.

"Why, I have been hunting the house where a sick friend of mine was left after the battle, and, being unable to find him, I went to sleep in a barn, but I couldn't stand that sort of a rest, so I got out and started back home, and I guess I'm lost."

"I guess you are."

The use of this word nearly gave me away.

"What regiment was your friend in?"

"I don't know for sure, but think it's a Maryland company. I knew him in Texas, but we were both from Maryland, and maybe he went with some Texas acquaintances."

"Well, my friend, this is rather a singular place and time to be found hunting a sick friend."

"Yes, I know; but, as I tell you, I am lost in the darkness, and must have taken the wrong road when I left the barn. I will show you my passes."

"Oh, you have passes, have you? Come into the house and we will make a light; we can't make a light out here because we are right on the line."

As we turned to leave, the sentry or guard who had halted me whispered or spoke in a low tone to the officer. I suspected that he was telling him that I had expressed my relief at seeing his blue uniform. The officer merely nodded assent, as he invited me to walk alongside of him into the house.

I took occasion to say to him that when I saw the blue coat I was sure that I had been caught by a Yankee soldier, and expressed my great pleasure at having met such courteous Southern gentlemen.

"Well, you came very near going into the Yankees' hands; why their cavalry come out here every day, and were away inside of this point to-day, but they generally go back at night, and we come out to spend the night on the road."

Then stopping in his walk he turned and, after peering through the trees, he pointed to a couple of dimly flickering lights and said: "Those lights are in Georgetown College."

Great God! I was so near and yet so far; and as I looked at the lights I was almost overcome with emotion to think that I had so nearly succeeded and was now a prisoner in the sight of home and friends; that I had, in fact, passed the last picket and had been halted from the rear, but realizing that I must, under the trying circumstances, keep a stiff upper lip, I might yet get free.

My surprise at hearing the lights pointed out as Georgetown College was so great that I must have expressed in some way my feelings, as the officer looked at me quizzically. I ventured to express myself in some way about being so near the Yankees, as I thought I was nearer Fairfax, in a manner which probably implied a doubt as to the lights being so close at Georgetown, when he spoke up:

"I know they are, because, you see, I was a demonstrator of anatomy and a tutor at that college, and we all know about it." And as a further proof of his assertion he incidentally observed: "If you are around this country in daylight you can see the Capitol from some elevated points."

In the silence and gloom that had settled down over me, like a cold, heavy, wet blanket, we walked together to the house.

Along the fence and hitched to the posts were several horses, already saddled and bridled for sudden use, while in the porch of the house were stretched in sleep the forms of two or three men in gray uniform, with their belts and spurs buckled on.

Inside the house a tallow candle was found, and by its dim light, the Confederate officer scanned my pass, and then, turning, gave me a most searching look by the light of the candle, as he said: "This pass is all right for the inside of our lines."

"Oh," said I quickly, "I don't want any pass anywhere else. I'm glad that I found you here, or I'd have gone into the Yankees' hands, sure."

While talking to the sentry, when waiting for the officer to come up to us, I had not thought it necessary to attempt to destroy or "lose" the papers in my old hat, as I supposed him to be the Union picket; and, since the officer had joined us, there had been no opportunity to do anything with him, without exciting suspicion, which was the one thing to be avoided at that time.

When we went into the house I had, of course, taken off my hat, and as I sat there under the scrutiny of that fellow's black eyes and sharp cross-examination, I held my hat in my hand, and everytime my fingers would touch or feel the presence of the paper in the hat I was conscious of a little flush of guilt and apprehension, which happily the tallow candle did not expose.

The officer, at my request, hospitably accepted the suggestion that I be permitted to stay there under their protection until daylight, when I could return to "our army," supplementing the arrangement by the kind observation:

"We will see you back safely."

Then rousing one of the sleeping soldiers, whom he called aside and gave some private directions as to my care and keeping, he courteously told me to make myself comfortable, and apologized for the accommodations.

I was a prisoner, and I knew full well that to be escorted back through the Rebel armies with this officer's report that I had been "found at their outposts going in the direction of the enemy," would excite a suspicion that would be sure to set on foot a closer examination, and this would result in my certain detection; because the first thing they would do would be to show my forged endorsement from General Beauregard's Chief-of-Staff for his further endorsement; and I could not, of course, stand an examination into my immediate antecedents, nor explain my statements, and this would also discover my operations in the telegraph office.

As I lay down alongside of the armed Rebel trooper for a rest, I resolved that, come what might, I should not go back a prisoner—that it would be preferable to be shot trying to escape rather than to be hanged as a spy.

CHAPTER XII.

ANOTHER ESCAPE, ETC.

As I lay me down to sleep on the front porch of the little old house, close beside an armed Rebel soldier, and not very distant from two other aroused troopers, I realized in a manner that I can not describe that I was not only a prisoner, but that I was most likely suspected of being a spy who had been captured in the very act of escaping from their own into their enemy's lines. I felt all the worse from the reflection that my unfortunate predicament resulted solely from a want of caution or discretion; that had I been content to suffer more patiently the delays and annoyances which were necessarily to be encountered while tramping in the darkness through the fields and briar bushes in avoiding the highways, I might have passed the danger line a moment later, to have reached our own lines safely enough a little later in the night. I had actually passed all the Rebel pickets, both of infantry and cavalry. I learned from the talk of the men into whose hands I had run myself, that they were merely a detached scouting party, who were at that particular point at night, as I surmised, to receive communications from their friends who were inside our lines during the daytime.

This arrangement was for the accommodation and convenience of their spies in our army—enabling them to come out to this rendezvous under cover of the night to deliver their mail or supply information.

I gathered these facts from the big fellow who had me in charge, who, it was courteously observed by the officer, "would make me as comfortable as possible," after the manner of a jailor the night before a hanging.

The outpost was not only a branch postoffice for the Rebel couriers, but there was a previously-arranged system of signals with some one at the college, by which any important advances or other movement of our forces could have been quickly announced, and that would have been well understood by the party stationed there to observe this.

As I have said, I fully determined in my own mind not to go back to the Rebel headquarters as a suspected spy. The forged endorsement, or request for a pass, which I had voluntarily relinquished to the Rebel officer, while it seemed to allay any suspicions that might have been aroused in his mind, had the opposite effect with me.

It was the one little piece of paper out of my hands that was sure to be closely scrutinized by the officers. It would supply documentary evidence not only of my guilt as a spy, but of forging a Rebel General's endorsement.

I had not yet seen any chance to make away with the other dreadful death warrant, in the form of the stolen telegram that was concealed under the lining of my hat.

While passing into the house from the road I might have thrown my hat down, but I knew they would hunt it up for me, and, in handling it, be sure to discover the concealed papers. I could not get them out of the hat, even in the dark, without attracting attention that might result in an exposure; and, besides all this, I knew full well that any pieces of white paper, if torn into ever so small fragments and scattered on the ground, would be sure to attract notice and be gathered up at daylight. I was suspected, and, as such, every action and movement was being closely scrutinized and noted. My only hope was to delay the exposure that must eventually come; that I must keep still and trust to luck for escape; or, if an opportunity offered me, while pretending to sleep, I could eat and swallow the papers.

The horses of the troopers were already bridled and saddled and hitched to the fence-post. It occurred to me, in my despair upon seeing this, that, if I could only succeed in throwing these people off their guard for a moment, I might find an opportunity to seize one of their own horses, upon which I could ride defiantly and wildly down the road into the darkness, trusting to night and the horse to carry me beyond reach of their pursuit.

These were only a few of the many thoughts that rushed through my brain that night, as I lay there on the porch, so near home and friends on one side, and so close to death and the gallows on the other. It is said that a drowning person will think of the events of a life-time in one short moment. I had hours of agony that night that can never, never be described.

As I lay there looking up into the sky, perhaps for the last time, I thought I'd soon have an opportunity of finding out whether there were other worlds than ours. I was, indeed, going to that bourne from which no traveler ever returns.

The clouds, which had darkened the sky a little in the early part of the evening, were now slowly rolling by. I lay as still as death for an hour perhaps, watching the movements of the clouds; and thinking of my friends at home.

I wondered what each and every one was doing at that particular time, and imagined that most of my youthful associates were having a happy evening somewhere, while I, poor fool, was lying out on a Virginia porch in this dreadful fix, without a friend to counsel or advise with, while I might just as well have been at home and happy with the rest of them. If they thought of me at all, it probably was as a prisoner still about Harper's Ferry; but I would never, perhaps, have the satisfaction of knowing that my work in the Rebel camps had been understood. While cogitating in this frame of mind the moon began to show through the breaking clouds, and, as suddenly as if a face had appeared to my vision, the Southern moon looked straight down on my face, flooding the porch for a moment with a stream of mellow light.

I was lying partly on my side at the time, my head resting on my arm for a pillow, as was my habit; my hat, which yet contained the tell-tale papers, was under my face. I was almost startled from my reverie, as if by an apparition, and, looking around hastily, I saw standing, like an equestrian statue, on the road the mounted sentry, while along side of me, but to my back, was seated another fellow apparently wide-awake, who looked wonderingly at me as I raised my head so suddenly. I was closely guarded, and my heart sank within me as I again dropped my head to my favorite position on my pillowing arm.

The moon still shone clear, and as I looked with heavy, moist, downcast eye, I became suddenly thrilled through my whole being on discovering by the light of that indulgent old moon that right alongside of my hat was an open knot-hole in the floor of the porch.

I'm not a spiritualist or even a believer in the supernatural, but I must assert, upon my conviction, that some unseen influence must have directed and placed that ray of moonlight at that particular time, for the express purpose of enabling me to safely deposit the tell-tale papers. If it had not been for the timely rift in the clouds, I would never have discovered the little opening in the floor. Another fact which confirms me in my theory of the supernatural influence is, that, immediately after I had been so strangely shown the place of concealment, the light faded as suddenly as it had appeared, and for some time afterward the surroundings became obscure in the darkness.

There may have been, but I don't think there was, another hole in that porch floor, and this one was quite insignificant.

In the darkness I could barely insert my two fingers into the opening, as Mercutio says in the play:—"No, 'tis not as deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door: but 'tis enough, 'twill serve."

I don't think a hunted rat or fox was ever more grateful for a hole than I was for this; it was my only chance to get rid of the papers unobserved, and I at once took the hint from the sky and began silently to finger them out of my hat.

Unfortunately, they were quite bulky; the official paper which had given a tabulated statement of the epidemic and absence of twenty-five per cent. of the Confederate Army, was on foolscap paper, which would rattle everytime it was moved; but by turning or scraping my shoes on the boards every time I touched the papers deadened the sound, I was enabled, after a good deal of nervous twitching, to get them into a roll sufficiently small to poke down the hole. That's what I thought; but when I attempted to drop them the wad wouldn't fit; and, to add to my consternation, the guard at this point was being relieved. I lay still for awhile in a tremor of excitement lest I should be detected; it occurred to me, also, that though the moon had kindly shown me the way to get rid of my burden of proof, the sun might, also, in the hours following, expose, from the front part of the house, the presence of a roll of white paper under the porch. I had not satisfied myself that the opening at the front was closed. To prevent the roll of white paper being too conspicuous, I tore from my hat the black silk lining, and, at a favorable opportunity, I re-rolled the little paper into the black silk stuff in a smaller package, which allowed of its being deposited in the Rebel signal station, and "let her drop." It reached the ground about two feet below, and, being dark in color, was assimilated so closely with the black earth as not to attract any notice, even if there had been an opening to daylight. This package out of my mind and off my hands safely, I breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief and thankfulness, and uttered a solemn prayer: "That I'd be hanged if I ever touched another paper."

When I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and looked around and saw daylight breaking, my heart again sank within me as I realized my position.

Through a misty, drizzling daylight in August, I saw preparations of the rebel outposts to "pack off," and was hurriedly ordered to get up behind one of the troopers whose horse would "tote double," and instead of a gallant dash down the road to our lines, followed by howling and shooting pursuers, I was being "toted," back to the Rebel Army, "on behind."

It seems very funny now to have to describe my inglorious position, as compared with the novelist's idea of a dash for liberty. I was riding lady fashion on the rear end of a rebel cavalryman's horse, holding on around his waist for dear life, like a girl at a picnic, as we trotted ingloriously back toward the headquarters of the Rebel Army. It was quite unbecoming I know, and if I had been in a camp meeting crowd I should have enjoyed the ride; just at this particular time I was obliged to be satisfied with the facilities, and pretended that it was fun. I was smart enough not to allow those people to discover, by any words or actions of mine, that I objected to going back in this way; though I would have given worlds to have had a chance to delay them, in hopes of relief coming up from the Union Army that would compel them to give me up in order to save themselves.

I WAS BEING "TOTED" BACK TO THE REBEL ARMY.

I had two chances for my life: I could not be expected to fight the whole Rebel Army single-handed and escape unhurt; the only thing to do, was, so to conduct myself that I might throw them off their guard and quietly get away, and thus have an opportunity to try again to reach our lines. The other alternative was, that if this chance of escape did not appear, that I might so conduct myself toward my captors as to win their confidence, and have the forged pass disposed of and not be carried to Beauregard. If conducted to headquarters, I might, by cunning stories, try to impress on the minds of those who would have my examination in charge the truth of the story that "I had become lost in the night, while searching for the house in which my sick friend was reported to have been left."

This was plausible enough, and I hoped from the general demoralization prevailing after the battle, that they might be careless, or at least indifferent, enough to let me off easy on this statement.

The forged endorsement on the pass, which had gone out of my hands, was the serious evidence against me, coupled with the fact of having been captured while trying to go to the enemy.

There was, also, of course, always before me the great danger of a discovery of my identity as the Fort Pickens Spy.

I had ample opportunity to consider all these things as we trotted along back over that portion of the road that I had tramped out in so lighthearted a manner the night previously. The soldier who "escorted" me was a jolly, good fellow, and felt disposed to make my ride as comfortable as possible, but as there were eight in the squad beside the officer in command, we had to keep up with the rest and, as our old nag was a rough trotter, it was a little bit uncomfortable at times. They seemed to be in a hurry to get away. Perhaps something may have happened while I was asleep that made it necessary for them to whoop things up a little that ugly morning.

The unpleasant jolting of the horses, and the rattling of the sabers and horses' tramping feet, prevented an easy flow of language—in fact, I could not talk at all; it required all my time and attention to keep my place on the rear of the saddle. I did not dare to drop off the horse, because the officer in charge had been careful enough to place us in front.

We reached a bridge on which was stationed a picket, who halted us; the officer rode up, dismounted, and gave the necessary countersign and ordered us forward.

I had only seen the bridge at night, and from the other side, where I had discovered a soldier with a gun walking about, when I broke for the field and flanked him. We were halted for a moment while the rebel officer of the guard, with our officer, walked a little distance to one side to consult with some others, who were in a drowsy way, lounging about a camp-fire.

I looked about to gain some idea of the topography of the country over which I had traveled in the night.

Several officers approached us, accompanied by our commander. I was requested to dismount, when our officer politely introduced me to the other, saying:

"The Colonel is anxious to know how in the world you could have gotten by his picket on this bridge last night."

"Yes" says the Colonel, "I've had men on post here who declare that no one passed them during the night."

I was taken all aback, because I had told the party who had captured me that I had followed the road right along.

"Well," said I, "I walked right over this bridge last night, and saw no one here at all."

What a whopper that was; but I knew that I'd got to go through with it. Turning abruptly away from us, both the officers walked off a short distance and brought a sergeant forward to hear my statement; luckily for me, he admitted that at a certain hour he had been obliged to leave the bridge in charge of one man alone; but he insisted that it was for a short time only. After this admission the sergeant and his officer had some interesting talk, in rather an emphatic tone of voice, in which my officer and our squad seemed to take a lively interest. They evidently felt that they had found a weak spot in the infantry line of pickets, and rather enjoyed the honor of having caught the fish that had gotten through the net.

After this little affair had been so happily passed, to my great relief, they all seemed to be in good humor with themselves and with me, and were rather inclined to give me credit for having passed through their infantry successfully. As my escort's horse was having to carry double, and could not be expected to travel as fast as the others, the officer in command directed a second man to stay with us, while himself and the rest of the body-guard rode ahead.

They assumed that, being again inside of their picket-line there was no danger of my getting out to the Yankees—if I had wanted to try to escape from them.

We were directed to hurry to a certain house, where they would order breakfast, and very considerately urging us to hurry along, so we could have it hot. I was apprehensive, from this talk of a breakfast in a house, that I should be landed back into the old bushwhacker's shanty, where I had taken a greasy supper the night before, and had been put to bed in his barn.

I was not sure of the road, nor would I recognize the house, as I had seen it only at night when approaching it from the other side. I felt relieved when we turned out of the broad road into one not so well traveled, which led to the left or south, in the direction of Fairfax or the railroad. To a question as to our destination, my man said: "We are to go to Headquarters, I reckon, but we are to stop up here for a rest and feed."