I grew more attached to Willis. If the Army of the Potomac had in its ranks any better soldier than this big red-beaded sergeant, I never saw him. He was ready for any duty, no matter what: to lead a picket squad into its pits under fire; to serve all night on the skirmish detail in place of a sick friend; to dig and shoot and laugh, and swear, in everything he was simply superb. That I do not quote his cuss-words must not be taken as an indication, that they were commonplace. Everything he did he did with, his might, almost violently. He was a good shot, too, within the range of the smooth-bore. The rebel pickets—most of them—seemed to be better armed than we were; it was said that they had received some cargoes of long Enfields—nine hundred yards' range, according to the marked sights, and no telling how far beyond—by blockade-runners. They could keep us down behind the pits while they would walk about as they chose, unless a shell from one of our batteries was flung at them, in which case they showed that they, too, had been studying the dodging lesson. Willis was greatly disgruntled over the fact that the rebels were the better armed, and frequently his temper got the upper hand of him. A bullet went through his hat one day when he was trying vainly to pick off a man in a rifle-pit; Willis's bullet would cut the dirt a hundred yards too short; the Enfield Minie ball would go a-kiting over our heads and making men far to our rear look out. Sometimes Willis was very gloomy, and I attributed this condition to his passion for Lydia, though, on such a subject he never opened his mouth to me.

One dark rainy night, about the 21st, I believe, Willis and I were both on the picket detail. It came my time for vedette duty, and Willis was the sergeant to do the escort act. There had been skirmishing on this part of the line the preceding day, but at sunset, or the hour for sunset if the weather had been fair, the firing had ceased as we marched up and relieved the old pickets. We were in the woods, the most of us, but just here, on the right of our own detail, there were a few rifle-pits in the open, the opposing skirmish, lines being perhaps four hundred yards apart, and our vedette posts—we maintained them only at night—being about sixty yards in advance of our pits, and always composed of three men for each post. We found our three men numb with, cold, two lying near the edge oL the woods, in a big hole made by a shell, while the other stood guard. They had seen nothing and heard nothing except the ordinary sounds of the night. The clouds reflected the peculiar glow of many fires in front. It was not long till day. The two men, my companions on post, whispered together, and then proposed that I should take the first watch. Willis had returned to the line with, the relieved vedettes. I had no objection to taking the first watch, yet I hesitated, simply because the two men had whispered. I fancied there was some reason for the request, and I asked bluntly why they had decided it was my turn without giving me a voice in the matter. You know it is the custom to decide such affairs by lot, unless some man volunteers for the worst place. They replied that they were old friends, and that as I was a stranger to them, the detail being made up from various companies, they preferred lying together.

This explanation, did not seem very satisfactory, for the reason that in two hours we should all be relieved; yet I consented, and they lay down in the hole, which was little more than a mud-puddle, for fear of some sudden, volley from the rebels.

The position of the man on watch at this point was just at the left oblique from the other men, say about ten paces, and very near to a tree which stood apart from the rest of the forest, a scraggy pine of second growth, not very tall, but thick and heavy, with, its limbs starting from the trunk as low as eight feet from the ground. I stood near this tree, within reach of it by a leap. Our nearest vedette posts, right and left, were a hundred yards from me—the one on the left being in the woods, that on the right in the open. The country called the Peninsula is low and flat and very swampy in many parts, and the great quantity of rain that had now fallen for days and days had rendered the whole land a loblolly, to use a common figure. I saw that just in front of me, about thirty yards, there was a shallow ravine, and I began to think that it was possible for an enterprising squad of rebels to sneak through this ravine and get very near us before we knew it, and perhaps capture us; such things had been done, if the truth was told, not only by the rebels, but by many other people at war.

Beyond the ravine were the Confederates, their skirmish line about three hundred yards beyond it, and their nightly vedette posts nobody knew where, for they used similar economy to ours in withdrawing their vedettes in the day. The Doctor's talks, many of which I can but barely mention, had opened my eyes a little to the possibility of accurate inferences, that is to say, his philosophy of cause and effect, or purpose, as he liked better to call it, had been urged upon me so frequently and so profoundly that I had become more observant; he had made me think of the relations of things. Philosophy, he had said, should be carried into everyday life and into the smallest matters; that was what made a good fisherman, a good farmer, a good merchant, and a good soldier, provided, he had added, there could be such a thing. This ravine, then, had attracted me from the first. I saw that it presented opportunity. A few rebels might creep along it, get into the woods, make prisoners of the vedettes on several posts, and then there would be a gap through which our skirmish line might be surprised.

I went quietly forward in the edge of the woods until I stood near the ravine, and examined it as well as I could for the darkness. It did not extend into the forest, for the roots of the trees there protected the soil from washing away. The undergrowth at my left was not very dense; I judged that in daylight one could see into the forest a hundred yards or more. At my right, the gully began and seemed to widen and deepen as it went, but nothing definite could I make out; all was lost in the night.

My examination of the spot had been made very quickly, for I was really transgressing rule in leaving my post, even for a more forward place but thirty yards away, and I was back at my tree in less than a minute.

The two men were yet lying in the hole; they had not observed my short absence, I was glad to see. I did not know these men, and I would not like them to know that I had left my post. Yet I felt that I had done right in leaving it; I had deserted it, technically speaking, but only to take a proper precaution, in regard to the post itself. Then, what is a man's post? Merely the ground with which the soles of his feet are in touch? If he may move an inch, how far may he move? Yet I was glad that the men had not seen me move and come back, and I was glad, too, that they had made the proposal that I should take the first watch, for I had discovered danger that must be remedied at once. It was almost time now for one of these men to take my place.

My fear increased. The motionless men at my right, unconscious of any new element of danger, added to my nervousness. I must do something.

I walked to the men and spoke in a low tone.

"Who stands watch next?"

"Me. But it's not time yet."

"Not quite," I said; "but it will be soon. I want you to go back to the line and tell Sergeant Willis that I'd like to see him a minute."

"Go yourself," he said; "I'm not under your orders."

"If you will do what I ask, I'll take your watch for you," said I.

The tempting offer was accepted at once; the man rose and said, "What is it you say I'm to tell him?"

The other man also had risen.

"Only that I want to see him."

"Anything wrong?"

"No; tell him I want to see him for a moment out here; that is all."

The man went; his companion remained standing—he had become alarmed, perhaps.

When Willis came I was under the tree.

"What's up, Jones?"

"I want to know what that dark line means there in front."

"It's a gully," says he.

"I wish you would go out there and look about you; I think our post ought to be where we can see into it."

"All right," said he; "I'll go and look at it."

I remained on post. It would not do, I thought, to give any intimation to the men that I had been to the ravine; they were standing near me.

In two minutes Willis returned.

"Jones," says he; "move your post up here. You men stay where you are."

We went out together, Willis and I, to the edge of the ravine.

"You're right, Jones," he says, in a whisper; "the post ought to be here."

"Yes; it would be easy for those fellows over yonder to surprise us. This ravine ought to be watched in the day even."

The sergeant showed no intention of leaving me; he seemed to be thinking. Suddenly he gave his thigh, a resounding slap.

"There!" says he, "now I've done it—but maybe they won't know what that noise means. Say, Jones, I've got an idea."

"Let's have it."

"We can get lots of fun out here."

"I don't understand. What are you driving at?"

"Well," says he, "you just leave it all to me. Don't you say a word to them fellows. I'll fix it up and let you in, too. Just be mum now, old man."

"Tell me what you mean."

But he had already started back.

It ought to be showing signs of day behind me, I was thinking; yet the weather was bad, and, although it had stopped raining, I knew that in all likelihood we should have a thick fog which would prolong the duty of the vedettes and make another relief necessary.

When Willis appeared again, three other men were following—good men of Company D. I could hear him say to my two fellows; "Go on back to the line; your time's not up, but you are relieved."

When he reached me, he put Thompson in my place, and led the way back a short distance and into the edge of the woods.

"Now, men," says he; "we're going to make a fort of that ravine. We want to fill these sand-bags, and we want some straw or something to screen them. Jones, you must go twenty yards or so beyond the gully till I whistle for you, or call you. The rest of us will do the work while you watch."

The sergeant's little scheme for having his fun was now clear enough. One of the party had brought a spade, and I noticed that others seemed to have come up in no light marching order. Willis meant to occupy the ravine and remain for the day, if possible, in this advanced post, so near the rebels that his bullets would not fall short. It was all clear enough.

The party had begun work before I went forward. Passing Thompson, I skirted the edge of the woods, and went some thirty or forty yards to my right oblique in the open, and then lay flat, with my eyes to the front. Soon I heard muffled sounds behind me; the men were filling the sand-bags. My position cramped me, my neck became stiff. No sound reached me from the front; I supposed that the nearest rebel vedette was not nearer than two hundred yards, unless at a point more advanced from his lines there was some natural protection for him. But what prevented my being surprised from the woods on my left? I lay flat and stiffened my neck; light was beginning to show.

At length I heard Willis call me, and I didn't make him call twice. The ravine, as the light became greater, showed itself almost impregnable against an equal force of skirmishers. Just where an angle in the western edge presented a flank of wall toward the north, Willis and his gang had cut away the earth into a shelf some three feet beneath the top. Ten sand-bags filled with earth surmounted the summit, with open spaces between, in order that a musket might be fired through, these handy port-holes, and the sand-bags were covered with, sedge from the open field. I congratulated our commander on his engineering feat.

The sun had risen, perhaps, but the fog had not lifted; we could yet see neither enemy nor friend. Willis put me on the right, and reserved the centre for his own piece; the centre happened to be about two feet nearer the enemy. From left to right the line was manned by Freeman, Holt, Willis, Thompson, Berwick.

"Men, attention!" says Willis.

"Take the caps off of your pieces!"

The order was obeyed, the men looking puzzled. Willis condescended to explain that we must fire a volley into a crowd as Act First; that any man who should yield to the temptation to fire without orders, was to be sent back to the line at once.

Slowly the fog began to break; the day would be fair. Suddenly a bullet whistled overhead; then the report came from the rebel side.

"Be quiet, men!" says Willis.

Everybody had rushed to his place.

"Eat your breakfast," says Willis.

We had no coffee; otherwise we fared as usual.

"The rebels have no coffee, neither," says Willis.

The breakfast was being rapidly swallowed.

"Hello, there!" shouts Willis, and springs for the spade.

Another bullet had whistled above us, this one from our own line in the rear.

The spade was wielded vigorously by willing hands, passing from one to another, until a low rampart, but thick, would protect our heads from the fire of our skirmish line. Meantime the fusillade from both sides continued.

Willis was at the parapet.

"Look out!" he cries.

A shell passed just above us, and at once a shower of bullets from the rebels.

"Here, men, quick!" says Willis.

We sprang to the embrasures. The rebels were plainly visible three hundred yards away, their heads distinct above their pits. Our skirmish line behind us seemed gone; the shell had been fired not at us but at our skirmishers, and the volley we had heard had been but the supplement of the artillery fire—all for the purpose of getting full command of our line, on which not a man now dared to show his head, for a dozen Minie balls would go for it at the moment. Unquestionably the rebels had not detected our little squad.

"Prime, men!" says Willis.

The guns were capped.

"Now, hold your fire till the word!"

Very few shots were now coming. The rebels were having it all their own way, nobody replying to them. Their bodies to their waists could be seen; some of them began to walk about a little, for they were not in any sort of danger, that is, from our line. They were firing with a system: pit No. 1 would send a ball, then in ten seconds, pit No. 2, and so on down their line, merely to keep the advantage they had gained. At irregular intervals two or three shots would be sent at some dummy—a hat or coat held up by the bayonets of men behind the pits in our rear.

"Ready!" says Willis.

Three men were in a group between two of the pits. Another joined them.

"Aim! Fire!"

Five triggers were pulled.

"Two down, by the—!" roared Willis, with, a more remarkable oath, than any I ever saw in print.

The wind was from the southeast, and the smoke had rolled my way; I had been unable to see the result. In fact, I could hardly see anything. Put yourself in a hole, and raise your head until your eyes are an inch, or two above the surface of ground almost level—what can you see? But for a slight depression between us and the rebels, the position would have been worthless; yet every evil, according to Dr. Khayme, has its use, or good side—our fortress was hidden from the enemy, who would mistake it, if they saw it at all, for one of the pits in our rear, perspective mingling our small elevation with the greater ones beyond.

We had leaped back into the ravine, which, here was fully eight feet deep and roomy, and were ramming cartridges. All at once a rattle of firearms was heard at the rear. Our skirmish-line had taken advantage of the diversion brought, and had turned the tables; not a shot was coming from the front.

Freeman looked through an embrasure. "Not a dam one in sight," he said.

Time was passing; the fire of our skirmishers continued; we were doing nothing, and were nervously expectant.

Holt wished for a pack of cards.

A council of war was held. Thompson was fearful of our left; a gang of rebels might creep through the woods and take us; we were but sixty yards from the woods. Willis had confidence that our line could protect us from such a dash; "they would kill every man of 'em before they could git to us," To this Thompson replied that if the rebels should again get the upper hand, and make our men afraid to show their heads, the rebels could come on us from the woods without great danger. Willis admitted that Thompson had reason, but did not think the rebels had yet found us out; at any rate, they would be afraid to come so near our strong skirmish-line; so for his part, he wasn't thinkin' of the left; the right was the place of danger—what was down this gully nobody knew; the rebels might sand a force up it, but not yet, for they didn't know we were here.

Again a rebel shell howled above, and again a volley from the front was heard as bullets sang over us, and our men behind us became silent.

We sprang to place, every eye on watch, every musket in its port-hole.

"Don't waste a shot, men," says Willis; "we're not goin' to have another chance like that. Take it in order from right to left. Berwick first. Wait till a man's body shows; don't shoot at a head—"

I had fired—Thompson fired immediately after. He had seen that my shot missed. Again the musketry opened behind us, and both sides pegged away for a while. Thompson claimed that he had hit his man.

Suddenly a loud rap was heard on one of the sand-bags,—one of the bags between Willis and Holt,—a bullet had gone through and into the wall of the ravine behind us. Willis fired.

"Damnation!" says he, "I believe they see us."

Yet it was possible that this was an accident; Holt fired, and then Freeman, and it became my turn again.

That bullet which had become entirely through the sand-bag and buried itself deeply in the ground, gave me trouble. I did not believe that an ordinary musket had such force, and I doubted whether an Enfield had it. The rebels were getting good arms from England. It might be that some man over there had a Whitworth telescope rifle; if so he had detected us perhaps—a telescope would enable him to do it. I said nothing of this speculation, but watched. Rebel bullets continued to fly over. I saw a man as low as his waist and fired; almost at the same moment my sand-bag was struck—the second one on my right, which protected that flank, and which the bullet, coming from the left oblique, struck endwise; the bullet passed through, the length, of the bag and went on into the wall of the gully. I sprang back and caught up the spade.

"What's up, Jones?" asked Willis.

"I'll report directly, Sergeant."

I dug at least two feet before I found the bullet; it was a long, leaden cylinder, with, a rounded point—not bigger than calibre 45 I guessed. This was no Enfield bullet. I handed it to Willis; he understood.

"Can't be helped," says he; "they know we're here, boys."

The danger had become great; perhaps there was but one Whitworth over there, but the marksman would at once tell the skirmishers where we were posted; then we should be a target for their whole line, and at three hundred yards their Enfields could riddle our sand-bags and make us lie low.

Rap, rap, rap! Three sand-bags were hit, and Holt was scratched on the cheek. The bullets struck the wall behind; one penetrated, the others fell into the ravine—they were Enfield bullets.

Holt's face was bleeding. The men looked gloomy; we had had our fun.

Willis called another council. His speech was to the effect that we had done more damage than we had received, and should receive; that all we had to do was to stay in the ravine until the storm should pass; the rebels would think that we were gone and would cease wasting their ammunition; then we could have more fun.

Holt said bravely that he was not willing to give it up yet; so said Thompson, and so said Freeman.

My vote was given to remain and wait for developments. At this moment retreat could not be considered; we could not reach the edge of the woods under sixty yards; somebody would be struck if not killed; it was doubtful that any could escape sound and whole, for the rebels, if they had any sense, were prepared to see us run out, and would throw a hundred shots at us. If our line could ever again get the upper hand of the rebels, then we could get out easily; if not, we must stay here till night. We had done all that could be done—had done well, and we must not risk loss without a purpose; we must protect ourselves; let the rebels waste their powder—the more they wasted, the better. The only real danger was that the rebels might advance; but even if they did, they could not get at us without coming to blows with our line—the ravine protected our line from their charge. It was our business to stay where we were and to keep a sharp lookout.

So it was ordered by Willis that while the storm was raging we should keep one man on watch, and that the others should stay at the bottom of the ravine. Holt boldly claimed first watch.

The four of us were sitting in the sand; Holt's head was below the level of the field; every now and then he raised his eyes to the porthole. Freeman began, taking off his coat.

"Gittin' warm?" asked Willis.

"I'm the man to show you a trick," said Freeman.

He hung the coat on the iron end of the spade, and tied his hat above on a stick; then he went down the ravine about ten yards, faced us, raised his dummy, and marched quickly toward us. This was the first dummy that the rebels had ever seen march, no doubt; at any rate their whole force was at once busy; the fire rolled from left to right far down the line, yet when Freeman examined his garments he found that neither hat nor coat had been struck.

"You see," said Freeman, "we can all run out when we want to."

Noon had come; after eating, I became exceedingly sleepy; I must make some effort to keep awake.

"Sergeant," I said, "if you say so, I'll go down the gully a little, and see what's there."

"All right, Jones; but don't go far."

I soon reached a turn in the ravine—a turn to the right, toward our line. I went on; this stretch was short; the ravine turned toward the left, getting deeper as it went; again it turned to the left, running for the Warwick, I supposed—certainly running straight toward the rebels. I came back and reported.

"Well," says Willis, "if they come on us, we'll have to run. We must keep two sentinels on post now."

Thompson was posted at the bend.

It was difficult to believe that the rebels would venture up the gully; they could not know how small was our force; if they should march a company up the ravine, the company would be exposed to capture by a sudden rush of our skirmishers. It was probable, however, that a few men would try to sneak up in order to see how many we were; yet even this supposition was not necessary, for the rebels were having everything their own way, and need risk nothing. So I decided in my own mind to be as patient as possible until dark.

The firing on both sides had ceased, except that an occasional Whitworth bullet would come at us, fired at such long range that we could not hear the report; the heads of the rebels were no longer seen. What were they planning? I was uneasy; I wished that we could find a means for communicating with our friends in the rear; if they would open fire again, we might rush out. Yet after all it was best to be quiet until dark.

I relieved Freeman at the porthole; Holt relieved Thompson at the bend. Since eleven o'clock Fort Willis had not fired a shot; our game had been blocked. The notion now came to me that if the rebels wanted us, the way to get us would be to send men up the ravine just before dark, and at the same time for a squad of them to steal through the woods to our left, where they would be ready for us when we should steal out.

"Sergeant!"

"What?"

"Think we'd better get back."

"What's the matter now?"

"Just at dark is the time for the rebels to catch us."

"Fact, by—!" says Willis.

"If you want to get out," said Freeman, the inventor, "I'm here to tell you how to do it."

"Le's have it," says Willis.

"Make a big smoke!"

Why had I not thought of that expedient? Between, us and Holt, down at the bend, there was brush growing on the sides of the ravine. Our knives and the spade were put to use; soon we had a big heap of green boughs and sprigs. It would take work to touch her off, for there was no dry wood; but we managed by finding the remains of cartridge papers and using a free supply of gunpowder. When all was ready, Holt was recalled, and the match was struck.

"Now, men, to your portholes!" says Willis. "We must give 'em a partin' salute."

The flame was long in catching. Every eye was alternately peeping to the front and looking anxiously at the brush heap. At last she caught, and a thin column of black smoke began to ascend.

"Be sharp, now! Them rebs will want to know what we're up to."

A few curious heads could be seen, but no shot was fired at us, or by us at them.

The smoke increased, but, alas! the wind was wrong and blew it away from the woods.

"Hell and Tom Walker!" says Willis.

But heaven—which he had not appealed to—had decreed that Fort Willis should be evacuated under her own auspices. Our attention had been so fixed upon two important specks that the rest of the universe had become a trivial matter. A sudden clap of thunder almost overhead startled the defenders of the redoubt. Without our knowledge a storm had rolled up from the Atlantic; the rain was beginning to fall in big icy-cold drops, already obscuring our vision.

"Fire!" shouted Willis.

The tempest burst in fury, and the gang marched bravely back to the skirmish-line, amidst a hail, not of bullets, but of nature's making.



XII

MORE ACTIVE SERVICE

"Do but start An echo with the clamour of thy drum, And even at hand a drum is ready braced That shall reverberate all as loud as thine." —SHAKESPEARE.

Early on the morning of the 4th of May loud explosions were heard in the direction of Yorktown, and the heavens glowed with the light of great fires. At sunrise our division got orders to be ready to march, but the morning wore away, and it was almost two o'clock before the long roll beat. At length we moved with the column, already unnerved by long-continued expectation, westward upon the Williamsburg road.

Willis was triumphant. "We got 'em now, boys," says he. "I told you so."

Lawler responded that any weather prophet would get rain if he kept on predicting till the rain came.

The mud was deep and heavy. The roads had been horribly cut up by the retreating rebels and by our cavalry advancing ahead of us.

Late in the afternoon we came to a long halt; a division had come into our road from the left and was now advancing, blocking our way. We rested. About dark our head of column was turned back and we countermarched, and halted, and marched again, and halted again, where, I do not know; but I know that I was thoroughly worn out when orders were given that the men should lie on their arms, but that they should otherwise make themselves as comfortable as they could. Rain was falling, the night was black, comfort was impossible. I suppose I got two or three hours' sleep. At daylight the march was again taken up; in an hour or two we halted and formed line with skirmishers in front; it was still raining.

We marched the length of the regiment by the right flank, through the woods, then fronted and moved forward, with skirmishers deployed in advance. The skirmishers soon became engaged. Bullets flew amongst us. We continued to advance until we reached the edge of the woods; the line had not yet fired a shot.

The rebels had cut down the timber in their front; as soon as we became visible they began throwing shells and grape-shot over the timber at our ranks. We lay down and took the fire and the rain. We lay there for something like two hours; then we moved to the rear,—only our regiment, I think,—fronted again, and marched to the right for perhaps a mile through the woods. Willis said that we were seeking any enemy that might be in the woods; but he aroused no interest; nobody either approved or seemed to doubt Willis's interpretation of the movement; we did not know what the generals were doing with us, and we were tired and sleepy and hungry and wet.

By twelve o'clock we had marched back to our former position near the felled timber. Rain continued to fall, and the hostile batteries to fire upon each other. Wounded men were carried to the rear. I noticed that our company seemed small; perhaps a few had been wounded; certainly many had fallen out of ranks, unable longer to endure.

About the middle of the afternoon we were moved again, this time through the woods to the left. As we marched, we could hear the roar of musketry ahead of us, and straggling men could be seen running in every direction except one. We moved on in line, without skirmishers. The straggling men increased in numbers, and many wounded went past us, the ambulance corps working busily here in the dense wet forest. The yells of the rebels were plainly heard, and all eyes were strained to catch sight of what was already but too well known. Every moment was an hour.

Suddenly from our front came a roar and a crash, and our line staggered to a dead halt, every man firing and loading as fast as he could—firing at a line of smoke ahead of us. Great shouts could be heard in the smoke; occasionally, in some momentary diminution in our own strife, there could be faintly heard the noise of battle to our right, far and near to our right.

Men were falling fast. All at once I heard Willis roar, "Fire to the left, men! fire to the left!" A great turmoil ensued; officers cried, "They are our men!" Willis again, shouted: "Fire on that line, men! They are rebels! They are rebels!" and he succeeded in convincing most of us that he was right. Then the cry rose: "We are flanked!" "Look out!" "Flanked!" "Here they come!" and then the whole crowd of us were running with all our legs. I reached a road that ran across the line of my flight; it was full of everything: troops in good order, stragglers breaking through them, wounded lying down, dead flat on their backs, artillery horses in their traces, ambulances.

So far as we were concerned, the fight was over; fresh troops had relieved us, and the rebels came no farther. It was night, and the battle soon ended on the whole line.

With difficulty I found my regiment and company. We lay in the woods; the rain kept on.

I have understood that the battle of Williamsburg is considered a victory for our side. I must confess that I did not know that we had won it until I was so informed, although I was certainly in the battle. The rebels fought this partial engagement only for the purpose, I think, of securing the retreat of their army and trains; we fought for the purpose of preventing the retreat. I have learned that our right wing had better success than we had on the left; but for all that, the enemy got away unbroken, and his purpose was accomplished. In the days of those early battles, even the falling back of the rebel pickets before a line of our skirmishers was telegraphed to Washington as a victory.

We lay on the wet ground; our sufferings were not small. Willis's remark, that the rebels too were wet, didn't seem to bring much comfort; even his assertion, that they would again retreat and that the morning would find them gone, called forth no enthusiasm. The men were dispirited; they knew very well that they had fought hard and had endured with the stoutness of good soldiers, but they were physically exhausted, and, above all, they felt that somebody had blundered in putting them unnecessarily into an awkward place. I have always been proud that none of our men deserted on the night of the Williamsburg battle.

No fires could be made, Willis and I ate a little and lay down. My gum-blanket was laid on the wet ground, with my blanket on top; this was our bed. Our covering was Willis's blanket and gum-blanket. The night was warm enough, and our covering was needed only as some protection against the rain. I was soon asleep, but awake again as soon. About ten o'clock I felt a hand on my shoulder. Rising, I saw our orderly-sergeant; a man was standing by him. I was ordered to report at General Grover's headquarters. The general had sent an orderly, who could not or would not tell why I was wanted.

General Grover was in the centre of a group of officers, surrounding a dim lantern which, was on the ground at the root of a large tree; horses were tied near by to the branches of trees.

The orderly saluted, pointed to me, and retired a few yards.

The general came toward me; I saluted.

"Your name," said he.

"Private Jones Berwick."

"Your regiment."

"Eleventh."

"Dr. Khayme has spoken of you."

I bowed.

"Are you willing to undertake a hazardous duty?"

"I want to do my duty, General; but I don't hanker after danger," said I.

"A prudent answer," said he; "come here."

He led the way toward the lantern, the group of officers scattering.

"The whole matter is this," said the general, "each brigade must send a man to the front to observe the enemy. Will you go for this brigade?"

"Yes, sir," I said; "I ought to, if you so command."

"There is no compulsion," said he; "a man who objects to going should not be allowed to go."

"My objections, General, are not strong enough, to make me decline."

"Then let us understand each other. Do this for me and you shall lose nothing by it. All proper favours shall be shown you if you do your duty well. Extra duty demands extra privilege."

"Can I see Dr. Khayme?" I asked.

"No, not to-night; he attends the right wing. Now, Berwick, let me show you."

He bent down by the lantern and was about to sit, when an officer stepped before and spread a gum-blanket on the ground, and placed the lantern near the blanket.

"Thanks, Hibbert," said General Grover.

The general took a map from one of his aides, and spread it on the blanket. It was a mere sketch—a very few lines.

"Here is our position," said he, making a mark with a pencil; "you see our line here, running north and south."

"Which is north?" I asked.

"Here, this way. We are in these woods; the rebels are over here, or were there at last accounts. Our picket-line is along this branch, in part. I want you to go through our pickets, and get across the branch, and go on through the woods until you come to this road, which you see running north and south. You need not go across this road. All I want you to do is to observe this road until day."

"Is the road in the woods, General?"

"Well, I don't know, but I think it is. You will have no trouble whatever, unless the rebels have their pickets on this side of the road," said he.

"But in case the rebels are on this side of the road, what shall I do?"

"It may be that their skirmishers are in the road, and their vedettes near the branch; in that case get as near as possible to the road. If they are on this side of the road, but so near the road that you can observe it with eye or ear, why, observe it with as little risk to yourself as possible. If bodies of troops move on the road, you must come back to the picket-line and report, and then return to your post of observation."

"Would it not be well to have an intermediate man between me and our picket-line?"

"A good idea, sir. We'll get the captain of the pickets to supply one."

"And now, General, suppose that the rebel pickets are much this side of the road."

"Then use your discretion, but observe that road this night. Take your own way to do it, but the road must be observed."

"How far do the woods stretch beyond the road, General?"

"If this sketch can be relied on, not more than three hundred yards," said he; "but it will not do to rely on this piece of paper."

"May I not run foul of some man of ours sent out by one of the other brigades, General?"

"Not likely; each, brigade sends in its own front, and you will hardly find that any man will be so enterprising as to try to do our duty for us; still, you must avoid any chance of a collision such as you speak of."

"How shall I get through our own pickets, General?"

"My courier will see you through," said he. "No; I will see you through. I want to see our line again, and I will go with you."

"Suppose the brigade moves while I am at the front, and I can't find you when I get back."

"Then make your report to the picket that relieves ours, and get back to us as soon as you can. Our pickets will tell those that relieve them about you."

"Suppose I find a movement in progress and can follow it," said I.

"Follow it as long as you wish, only be sure to report through the other man. Is everything clear to you now?"

"Yes, General; I think so."

"Then return to your company and get ready; be back in ten minutes."

I was back in ten minutes. I had decided to go entirely unarmed, and I was hoping that the men of the other brigades would have as much consideration for me, as I did not think it very unlikely that I should run against one of them in the darkness. I put my gum-blanket over me, committed my knapsack and other things to Willis's keeping; and was back with the general.

We found that our pickets were not on the branch which the general had shown me on the map, or on any branch. A brief conversation took place between the general and Captain Brown of the picket-line. The captain chose a man, and told him to follow me and to obey my orders.

Then the general put his hand on my shoulder. "Take care of yourself, my man," said he; "but get to that road; be sure that you report any movement on that road." I began to assure him that I would do all that I could, but I found that he had already started back to the brigade.

I asked Captain Brown to warn all his men not to fire on me when I should return. The low call went right and left along the line,—"Two of our men going to the front!"

"Where are your vedettes?" I asked of Captain Brown.

"The line itself is on extreme duty," said he; "the vedettes are only thirty yards in front; we posted the relief not half an hour ago."

I had already observed by the light of General Grover's lantern, which his orderly had discreetly held in reserve some ten paces or more, that the picket-line was a double one, that is to say, two men to every five paces, and that every man was standing in his place, gun in hand,—behind trees the most of them,—and with their faces to the front. There were no picket fires.

"How many vedettes are there? How thick are they?"

"One every twenty yards," said he; "I will relieve them with new men in half an hour, or a little more; an hour is long enough for such duty. The new men will be advised that you are still in front. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Come."

The three of us—Captain Brown leading, I following him, and the detailed man, Allen, coming after—went forward to a vedette. The captain spoke some words to him in a whisper, and then went back to the picket-line. I now observed that Allen had brought his gun. I say observed, for I did not see the gun; my hand happened to touch it. I asked Allen to go back and leave his piece at the picket-line; while he was gone I spoke in whispers to the vedette. He had heard nothing in his front, except that now and then there seemed to come to him, from far away, an indistinct rumble; he had seen nothing in the black night except trees but little blacker. The rain was a thick drizzle.

I warned the vedette to be very careful in case he heard anything in his front, lest he fire on a friend. He said that the vedettes had orders not to fire, but to retire at once on the picket-line in case of a silent advance of the enemy. This peculiar order, which at a later time I heard given again under somewhat similar circumstances, was no doubt a wise one. A secret advance of the enemy's skirmishers would have been precipitated into a charge by the fire of the vedette, whereas his secret retreat to his line would prepare the pickets to surprise the surprisers.

And now, with Allen just behind me, I went forward. The woods were so dense and the night so dark that it was useless to try to see ahead of me. The only thing to do was to feel my way. I supposed that the branch which I was to cross was but a very short distance in front. I had no fear that I should find enemies this side of the branch; the great probability was that their vedettes were posted on the farther bank of the stream. When I had gone not more than thirty yards, I felt that the ground sloped downward before me, and I judged that the branch was very near. I paused. There was not a sound except that made by the fall of heavy drops of water from the leaves of the trees. I strained my eyes, trying to see in front. Allen was but three paces behind me, yet I could not see his form. I stepped back to where he was, and asked in a low whisper if he could see at all.

"Yes," said he, "I can see a little. I can make out where you stand."

I told him that we ought to be now very near a branch, and that the branch ought to make a slight gap in the woods and a little more light. He whispered back that there was, he thought, more light in our front than there had been before. I now tried to discern this new light, and could not at first, but after a little while it did seem to me that just ahead there was a dim gray streak.

I made one step forward—paused—then another step; another, and I felt my foot in the water. The gray streak had widened. I made a step back, and caught Allen by the hand. Then I went forward, holding Allen's hand. But I wanted to speak to Allen, and feared to do so. We went back again, some three steps, until I was out of the water.

Allen was always a little in my rear, even when we were hand-in-hand. He whispered, "It is ten steps wide."

"Can you see across it?"

"I think so. I think the trees are lower over there."

In all my experience as a soldier I think that I never felt myself in a more critical place. The opposite side of the branch was an ideal position for the rebel vedettes. They ought to be there if anywhere in these woods. Still, they, as well as we, might have neglected their opportunity; besides, their line might be bent back here; their vedettes might be on the branch farther to our right, and here might be anywhere in its rear; we did not know where the rebel right rested. Of one thing I felt sure—the rebels did not intend to advance on this night, for in that case they would have had their vedettes, and their pickets also, if possible, on our side of the branch.

The thing had to be done. I must risk crossing the branch. If vedettes were on it, it was just within the possible that I might pass between two of them.

I whispered to Allen that I wanted a stick; he already had one, which he put into my hand. Then I told him to take hold of my coat, lest my foot should slip; the noise of a splash, might have caused utter failure, if not our capture.

We reached the water again. I felt before me. The end of the stick seemed to sink into soft mud.

I made another step forward. I was up to my ankles in mud, up to my knees in water.

I made another step; the water rose to my thighs.

Again a step; the water was no deeper, and I felt no mud under my feet. I thought I had reached the middle.

I paused and listened. I was afraid to speak to Allen. The same monotonous dropping of water—nothing more.

We went forward, and got to the farther bank, which seemed steep. By feeling right and left, I found a foothold. I loosed Allen's hand from my coat, and stood on the bank. Allen was in the water below me.

I looked around, for I could now see a little. I could easily tell that there were no trees over my head. I seemed to be surrounded by a dense, low thicket. What was in this thicket? Likely the rebel vedettes and pickets.

My hand inadvertently came in contact with a stump. I could feel the smooth surfaces left by an axe. The tree itself was lying there, but not entirely cut from its stump. I could feel the splintered middle of the tree, still holding. I at once knew that I was in the midst of felled timber,—on the edge of a slashing or entanglement.

Were the rebel vedettes in this felled timber? Most unlikely, unless there were alleyways open for their retreat. But perhaps the strip of timber was very narrow, and the rebel vedettes were just in rear of it; perhaps it was cut only along the margin of the branch, and in order to impede and expose to hearing any enemy that might succeed in crossing the branch. But, in that case, would not the timber be a protection rather than a hindrance to the enemy advancing or stealing forward? Yes, unless the vedettes were just in rear of this very narrow strip, or unless the rebel intrenchments wore in easy musket range.

These thoughts went through my mind while I was on the bank with Allen below me. I hesitated. Beyond this skirt of felled timber there might be capture, or death, or there might be no danger whatever. I was beginning to hope that there was no vedette or picket-line in these woods.

Whispering to Allen to remain where he was, I crept forward; after having made some ten paces through the entanglement, I paused and listened. There was not a sound. I crept back to Allen, and, giving him my hand, helped him up the bank. Then we both went forward until I supposed we were near the spot to which I had previously advanced. Allen was now signalled to stop, while I crept on again, and again returned to him; then both went forward as before. On this second stage of our approach we passed through to the farther side of the felled timber.

We were now on the edge of woods still standing. I feared every moment lest we should be detected by some vedette. The enemy's works ought to be very near; neither spoke to the other; abatis without intrenchments was not to be thought of. Yet I was hoping to find the intrenchments deserted.

The rain had almost entirely ceased. The night was growing. We had used up at least an hour's time, and had made an advance of less than two hundred yards.

I moved forward again—and back—alternately alone and with Allen forward—until at length I reached a road running across my line of progress.

After listening again intently and hearing nothing, I got down on my hands and knees and crawled across the road. I could tell with my hands that the road was cut up with ruts, and what I supposed were horses' tracks, but it was impossible for me to know which way the tracks headed.

Beyond the road the woods continued; I crawled on for thirty or forty yards, and found nothing.

Then I returned to Allen, and speaking low I asked him, "What do you think that skirt of felled timber means?"

"It means breastworks over there in the woods," said he.

"But I have been at least thirty yards beyond the road and there is nothing. I am beginning to believe that there is not a rebel left in these woods."

"Then," said he, "the timber was cut down with the intention of fortifying, and afterward the intention was abandoned."

"Or else it was cut down, as a blind," said I; "likely enough its purpose was merely to keep troops on this road from being seen."

"Still," said he, "they may be back farther in the woods."

I did not believe it. If this felled timber defended the approach to a rebel line, we were near enough to the line to hear many noises. The only thing I now feared was some scouting party.

It was necessary to run some risk; even if we should be fired upon, I decided that we must learn which way the movement on the road had been. I had Allen take off his cap, and while I lighted a match near the ground, he held his cap over it, and we both looked with all our eyes, moving the match back and forth over the road. The tracks all headed to our right.

Then we both stepped quickly to the farther side of the road.

"Allen," said I, "you must stay here till I return."

"Where are you going?"

"Through the woods."

"How long will you be gone?"

"A very short time. If I am not back in fifteen minutes, you must return to the pickets and report that there has already been a considerable movement on the road, and that no enemy is here. I feel certain that there are no rebels in these woods. They were here, but they have gone. I want to get to the open ground and see what is there; it will not take long."

"I'm afraid that you can't see to make your way back to this spot," said he.

"I may be compelled to whistle for you," said I; "if there is nobody in these woods, there is no danger in my whistling."

"Better take me with you," said Allen; "two pairs of eyes are better than one."

"That is true," I replied, "but some accident might happen to both of us out there, and neither of us be able to report to General Grover. Stay where you are."

I tried to go forward in a straight line so that I should be able to turn square about and make my way back to Allen. The woods became more open as I went. The rain had ceased, and I could see much better. I reached the edge of the woods, and looked out. A few stars were shining between broken clouds near the horizon in front of me—west, I thought. Toward the north, and northwest the clouds reflected some distant light, and had a reddish glow. I could distinctly hear the sounds of great movements, the rumblings of wagon, trains or artillery. The ground seemed open before me for a long distance.

I went rapidly back toward Allen, whistling. He came to meet me.

"Now, Allen," said I, "your part of this business is about over. Go back to Captain Brown and ask him to report at once to General Grover that the road shows clearly that the rebels have already moved along it to their left, our right; and that there is nobody here, all gone; gone to our right, their left, and that I have been entirely through the woods, and have found nothing, but that to the northwest there are the sounds of great movements, and that I am going to see if I cannot find out more."

"Then what am I to do after that?" he asked.

"Nothing; remain with your company. I shall not need you, for I doubt if I get back before day, and there is nothing for me to fear in this place."

Allen started one way and I another. It was now about two o'clock, I thought; the sky was almost clear, and I could see about me. I passed rapidly through the woods again and into the open ground, climbing a rail fence, and went up a very gentle slope that rose before me, an "old field," or abandoned farm, which was scattered over here and there with clumps of stunted growth. Once I paused in terror. A bush had taken, to my fancy, the form of a man. The illusion lasted but for a moment.

When I had reached the highest part of this undulation, I could see many lights—some of them in motion, but most of them stationary. The sounds of a moving army were distinct; I could hear shouts, like those of teamsters, and once I thought I could catch the command to close up.

I went on, down a gentle descent, and into a ravine which was difficult to cross, and up the rise beyond. Between me and the red glare I could distinguish objects, and I knew that if there were rebels in line before me, I should be able to see them before they could see me, so I went on without great fear, and crept to the top of this second swell of the ground.

Here there could be no doubt that the rebels were retreating. The road was full of them not four hundred yards from me. Fires were burning on both sides of the road; men and wagons were hurrying westward. Almost in front of me was a cluster of houses, which I took to be Williamsburg; fires were burning in the streets; a great throng was passing on west between the fires and between the houses. I had little doubt that I could mingle, without great danger, with the rebels, seeing that my gum-blanket would hide my uniform, and was tempted to do so; the thought was rejected, however; time was lacking; it would soon be day; I knew enough already; I could not hope to learn from the rebels much more than I now knew, and every step farther away from our lines would doubly delay my report. So I turned my back upon Williamsburg and hurried toward our pickets.

When I reached the road again, day was breaking. A vedette had been advanced to the branch by Captain Brown. I hurried on and made my report to General Grover. He at once called a courier, who mounted and rode off in haste.

* * * * *

On the morning of the 6th, the happiest man in the line was Willis. Everybody was glad that the enemy had retired; but Willis was bubbling over with the joy of foresight fulfilled. He rode a high horse; the rebels would make no further stand until they reached Richmond; he doubted if they would attempt to defend Richmond, even. His spirits were contagious; he did good although he was ludicrous. What would Dr. Khayme have said of Willis's influence? I supposed that the Doctor would have used the sergeant as an illustration of his doctrine that there is nothing unnecessary or false; certainly Willis encouraged us.

The weather was better and the day's work not hard. We moved but a short distance, and bivouacked.

About noon I was aroused from sleep by an order to report to Colonel Blaisdell. I had no notion, of what was wanted of me. I had never before been individually in his presence. I wondered what it meant, and hastened to his headquarters.

I saluted; the colonel returned the salute.

"You are Private Berwick?" he said.

"Yes, Colonel."

"What have you been doing?"

"In what respect, Colonel?"

"You have been absent from your company." His voice was gruff, but his eye and mouth belied his voice.

"Here," said he; "take this and read it."

I read the following: "Private Jones Berwick, Company D, Eleventh Massachusetts Volunteers, is relieved, until further orders, from duty with his company, and will hold himself ready for special service when ordered."

This order was signed by Colonel Blaisdell, and approved by General Grover.



XIII

JONES ON THE BLACK HORSE

"Take all the swift advantage of the hours."—SHAKESPEARE.

At about three o'clock in the afternoon of this 6th of May, I was again aroused from sleep, this time by an order to report to the adjutant of the Eleventh. He informed me that he was aware of General Grover's order relieving me from regular duty—in fact had himself written the order by command of Colonel Blaisdell, who had been asked to issue it by our brigade commander. The adjutant also told me that I should still get rations through Company D, but that I was free to go and come when not on special duty, and that I was expected to keep him advised of my goings, so that I could be found when wanted. "For the rest," said he, "you will do much as you wish, especially when the brigade is in reserve, as it is to-day, and as it is likely to be for a good many days to come. Your services to be required at long intervals will make up, it is hoped, for your exemption from regular duty."

I thanked him and retired. I had learned that Dr. Khayme was on the right, and at once set out to find him, traversing much of the battlefield of the preceding day. When I reached the ground over which Hancock's troops had fought, it became evident that the rebels had here suffered severely; their dead were yet numerous in places, although details of men had long been busy in burying the slain of both armies.

At last I found Dr. Khayme's tent, after having been directed wrong more than once. No one was there except a white servant; he told me that the Doctor, who was now at the field hospital, had been busy the whole of the preceding day and night in relieving the wounded; that he had taken no sleep at all. "I don't see how the Doctor stands what he goes through," said the man. "Yesterday the whole day long he was in the thick of it; he was in as great danger as the troops were; lots more than some of 'em. He said that the rebels wouldn't try to hit him; but for my part I wouldn't trust one of 'em as far as I could fling a bull by the tail; and him a tendin' to 'em just like they was our own men."

This was not the first I had heard of the Doctor's disregard of danger. At Bull Run he was known to follow a charge and assist the wounded as they fell. I supposed that there was no use expostulating with a man who so firmly believed in the peculiar doctrines of his philosophy.

About nightfall he came into the tent, rubbing his hands.

"Good evening, Jones. I expected to see you here. I suppose you think you are going to stay with me several days?"

"Why do you suppose so, Doctor?"

"Oh, by this and that. Your brigade will have nothing to do this side of the Chickahominy."

"I don't know anything about the Chickahominy," I replied.

"You will know."

"The brigade can be easy for some time, then?"

"Any man can be easy for some time if he has been ordered on special duty not to be demanded for some time."

"You know about my case?"

"Yes."

Dr. Khayme looked surprisingly fresh after having undergone such arduous labours; indeed, this little man's physical endurance and his mental power were to me matters for astonishment equally great.

"Doctor," I said, "I hear you have been working very hard. You need rest and sleep."

"Well," said he, "when I need rest I rest; when I need sleep I sleep; just now I want supper."

After we had eaten he filled his pipe, and settled himself on a camp-stool. He got more comfort out of a camp-stool than any other man in the world. As I saw him sitting there, puffing slowly, his eyes filled with intelligent pleasure, his impassive features in perfect repose, I thought he looked the picture of contentment.

I asked about Lydia.

"Lydia will not rejoin me yet," said, he; "she wishes to be with me, but I prefer that she should remain in the hospital at Hampton until the army is concentrated. You will have some marching to do before you have any more fighting, and I don't think I'll send for her yet."

"I suppose she can do as much good where she is," I said.

"Yes, and save herself the worry of frequent marches. She can come to me when things are settled. However, I am not sure that we shall not demand her services here. But now tell me all about your last night's experience."

When I had ended my narration, he said, "You will hereafter be called on to do more of such work."

"I suppose so," said I.

"Do you like it?"

"No, Doctor, I do not, and I am surprised that I do not. Yet, I shall not object if I can accomplish anything."

"You have accomplished something each time that you have been sent out. You have at least furnished strong corroborative evidence, sufficiently strong to induce action on the part of your generals."

"Doctor, I wish you would rest and sleep."

"Are you sleepy?"

"No; I slept all the morning, and had another nap in the afternoon."

"Well, let us talk awhile. The animals can rest; speech is given unto man alone. First, I say that by holding to your programme of last night you will incur little risk."

"Tell me what you mean by holding to my programme, Doctor."

"And you will accomplish more," he added meditatively. "Yes; you will be in less danger, and you will accomplish more."

"I should be glad to be in less danger, as well as to do more," said I.

"You should always do such work unarmed."

"You are right, Doctor; entirely right. Arms are encumbrances only, and a man might easily be tempted to fire when he ought to be silent."

"My reasons are a little different from yours," said the Doctor; "you will be safer if you are unarmed, and other people's lives will be safer from you."

"Why should I not also wear Confederate uniform?"

"And be a spy, Jones?"

"Hardly that, Doctor; merely a scout near the enemy's lines, not in them."

"I cannot vote for that yet," said the Doctor.

The Doctor's servant entered, bringing a written message addressed:—

PRIVATE BERWICK, On detached service, At Sanitary Camp, Rear of General Hancock's division.

"Who gave you this?" I asked.

"A man has just come with it—a horseman—two horsemen; no, a horseman with two horses."

"Is he waiting?"

"Yes, sir."

I tore open the envelope. The Doctor was showing no curiosity; the thought went through my mind that he already knew or suspected.

There were three papers,—a sketch, a sort of passport which contained only the countersigns for the past five days, and an order from General Hooker.

The order itself gave me no information of the reasons which had influenced General Hooker to choose me for the work required; I could merely assume that General Grover had nominated me. I read the order thoroughly three times, learned by heart the countersigns, impressed the map on my mind, and then destroyed the three papers in accordance with an express injunction comprised in the order itself. This mental work took some minutes, during which the Doctor sat impassive.

"Doctor, I must go."

"Well, Jones, we can finish, our talk when you return. I suppose you are on secret service."

"Yes, Doctor,"

"Can I help in any way?"

"Please let me have that gray suit."

He brought it himself, not wishing his servant to see it.

"Anything else, Jones?"

"Yes, sir; I shall need food."

"How will you carry it?"

"In my pockets. Bread will do."

"I think I have a better thing," said he; "I have provided that you shall not starve again, as you did on the Warwick."

He produced a wide leathern belt, made into one long bag, or pocket; this he filled with small hard biscuits; it was just what I wanted.

"Doctor, you are the most extraordinary man in this army."

"I am not in this army," he said.

The belt was put on beneath my waistcoat.

"I'll leave my gun and everything with you, Doctor; I hope to get back in two or three days."

"Very well, Jones. God bless you, boy," he said, and I was gone.

Before the tent I found "the horseman with two horses."

"Does General Hooker expect a written reply?"

"No, sir; I suppose not."

"Then you may report that you have delivered your message and that I begin work at once."

"Yes, sir."

I took the led horse and mounted. The man used his spurs and rode toward the east.

My orders required me to go west and northwest. I was to communicate with General Franklin, whose division on this day ought to have landed on the south bank of the Pamunkey below White House for the purpose of cutting off the Confederates' retreat. The earliest possible delivery of my message was strenuously required, my orders even going so far as to include reasons for despatch. The retreating enemy were almost between us and Franklin, and he must be notified to attack and delay them at every hazard, and must be informed if possible by what road he should advance in order to cut off their retreat; it was added that, upon landing, General Franklin would not know of the situation of the rebel army, and would depend upon information being brought to him by some one of the messengers sent him on this night.

My ride was to be a ride of twenty-five miles or more, judging from the map. Our outposts were perhaps six miles ahead; I made the six miles in less than three-quarters of an hour. With the outposts I had no trouble.

"Give me the countersign for last Sunday," said the officer.

"Another man's ahead of you," he said, when I had responded.

"Who is he?"

"Don't know. Horse black."

"Going fast?"

"Goin' like hell!" said he; then added, "and goin' to hell, too, if he don't mind how he rides."

It was now after nine o'clock, and I had nineteen or twenty miles ahead of me. As I had ten hours, I considered that circumspection was worth more than haste—let the black horse go on.

"Where are the rebels?"

"A mile in front when dark came."

"Infantry?"

"Couldn't say; they are infantry or dismounted cavalry—don't know which."

"Please describe their position."

"Don't know a thing except that they could be seen drawn up across the road—a mile out there," pointing.

"In the woods?"

"Yes."

"Captain—"

"No, only lieutenant."

"Beg pardon, sir; won't you be so good as to send a man with me to the point from which the rebels could be seen at dark?"

"Yes; I'll do that much for you. Here, Johnson!"

As Johnson and I rode forward, I tried to get all he knew—but he knew nothing; he had no idea whether the enemy were cavalry or infantry, whether they had retired or were yet in position, or how many they were. The moon was almost overhead; the sandy road muffled the sounds of the horses' hoofs; no noise came from front or rear. The way was through the woods; in little more than half a mile open ground was seen ahead. Johnson stopped; so did I.

"They are on the other side of the field," said he,

"How wide is the field?"

"A quarter, I guess."

"What was planted in the field last year?"

"Corn."

"Stalks still standing?"

"Yes, but they are very small."

"Does the road run between fences?"

"Yes."

"How far does the field extend to our right?"

"Only a short distance—a few hundred yards."

"And to our left?"

"Farther—about a half a mile, maybe."

"Any houses?"

"Yes, on the other side, where the rebels were."

"A farmhouse?"

"Yes, and other buildings—stables and the like."

"Which side of the road?"

"The left."

Johnson could answer no further questions; I let him go.

How had the black horse passed on? Delay might mean my arrival at Franklin's position later than that of the black horse, or it might mean success. If the rebels had abandoned this position at nightfall, I should be wasting time here by taking precautions; if they were yet yonder in the woods on the other side of the field, they would capture me if I rode on. Which course should I take—the safe course, or the possible speedy course? I took the safe course. Dismounting I tied my horse to a swinging limb, and crept forward on the right of the right-hand fence, until I reached the woods beyond the field. I looked over the fence into the road. There was no enemy visible. The house at the west was without lights, and there was no noise of barking dogs or of anything else; clearly the rebels had moved, and by my prudence the black horse had gained further upon me. I got into the road and ran back to my horse, mounted hurriedly and rode forward at a gallop for half a mile; then I slowed to a walk. How far had the rebels gone? Might I not expect a challenge at any moment? I must not let a first disappointment control my reason. The roads were bad; the retreat of the rebels was necessarily slow, as they had many wagon trains to protect. The road must be forsaken at the first path that would lead me to the right; any bridle-path would lead me somewhere. The night was clear, and the stars would guide me until I should reach some better ground. The sketch furnished me gave me only the main road, with the branch roads marked down for very short distances. I would take one of the branch roads leading to the right; there must be roads leading up the York; all the country is interlaced with roads small and large. I would risk it; better do that than risk falling into the enemy's hands.

I was thus cogitating when a sound reached me. I thought I could distinguish a horse's footfall. I stopped—the sound was louder—coming and coming fast. I dismounted and led my horse into the woods a few yards and covered his mouth with my hands. Still the sounds reached me—the constant cadence of a galloping horse, yet coming from far. Who could be riding fast this night? Who could be riding south this night? The rebels were going north; no rebel horseman would ride south to-night.

The sounds increased now rapidly, and soon a single horse dashed by; I could not see the rider for the boughs of the trees, but I saw a black horse going south.

Was this the messenger who had outstripped me at the start? I could not know, but the horse was black. Why not brown? How could I be sure that in the moonlight I could tell black from brown, or black from bay? I could not answer, yet I felt confidence in my first impression. The lieutenant had said the man's horse was black. How did the lieutenant know? Had he seen the horse by day? Had he brought a light? The horse must be very black. To satisfy my mind I led my horse into the road and slipped the bridle round his foreleg; then retired a few yards and looked at him—he had not the colour of the black horse; he was a deep bay.

Why was the black horse returning? Doubtless the enemy had been found far up the road, and the messenger could not get through them. Who else would be riding fast down this road? If the rider were a rebel, he would ride slow. Our men would ride fast toward our own lines; this rider was one of ours. Who was he? He was the messenger on the black horse. Why should he ride so fast to the rear? He was seeking a new road; perhaps he knew of another road, and was hurrying now because he had already lost time and his new road would be longer and would make him lose more.

Yet I went on up the road. I had heard the galloping of the black horse far off, and I knew that I could go half a mile before I should encounter the enemy. I was ahead of the black horse.

After riding five minutes slowly on, I came to a small field on the right of the road; in the field was a cabin. I paused, and considered. The cabin, no doubt, was deserted; but if it were occupied, what should I fear? I was in citizen's dress. If any one was now in the cabin, I might get information; if it was deserted, I could explore the ground about it, for I hoped that some path connected this place with other fields and perhaps other roads to the north. I dismounted and approached the door and knocked. There was no response. I pushed the door, and it opened; the place had been vacated. I searched the grounds; there was a well in the back yard, and I lost the hope that I should find a path leading to a spring, and perhaps beyond. I diligently and painfully continued my search, and at length was rewarded by seeing a stile in the back fence. I went back and mounted, and rode round the little field to the stile, and took the path leading from it due north. I reached the woods, and was compelled to dismount, for the branches of the trees overhung the path and constantly barred my way. Leading my horse, I continued on and came to a larger field where, at the fence, the path connected with, a narrow plantation road which I knew, from the ruts, wagons had used. I went to the right, no longer dismounted, and going at a fast trot. My road was running in a northeast course, but soon the corner of the field was reached, and then it branched, one branch going to the north, the other continuing northeast Which should I take? I could not hesitate; I rode north, and kept on pursuing this narrow road for nearly a mile, I supposed. Where I was I did not know, but I felt sure that I was flanking the rebels who had stopped the black horse. I considered the plan of trying now to get back into the main road again, but rejected the thought, for no doubt Johnston's army was stretched along this road for many miles; no doubt it was only the rear-guard picket that had turned back my unknown friend who had preceded me. I would keep on, and I did keep on, getting almost lost sometimes, passing farms and woods and streams, forsaking one path for a worse one, if the latter favoured my course, until at last, after great anxiety, and fatigue of body and mind, I reached a wide road running northwest. I had come, I supposed, four or five miles from the stile.

Now I no longer feared the rebel army. That was at my left in the road to Richmond. This road I was on led up the York. The map was worthless now. Of course, I might run foul of scouts and flying parties; those people I must watch for.

I supposed it was one o'clock, and that I yet had fifteen miles to go, for I had made my route much longer than the main road; but I counted that I had gained greatly, for I was in comparative safety, and had five hours yet. The road ahead I knew nothing about, but it was running in the correct course for Eltham's Landing high up on the river.

Soon I came to a fork. Which branch should I take? If I should take the right, it was chance for chance that I should go straight off to the York, and I wanted to go up the York; if I should take the left, it was chance for chance that I should ride straight to the enemy on the Richmond road.

I took the left. To go to the river meant almost the loss of hope thereafter. I would go toward the enemy for a little distance, but would take the first bridle-path to the right, some road or bridle-path branching out of this, and running up the river. But my progress became exceedingly slow, for I feared always to miss seeing some blind road leading to the right, and my carefulness again cost me a little time, perhaps, for I found a path, and took it, going with great caution for a furlong, to find that it entered a larger road. If I had not taken this path, I should have soon reached this good road at its junction, and time would have been saved by increased speed; yet I did not blame myself, and went on with renewed hope and faster, for although the moon was getting far down the sky, my road was good and was running straight toward my end.

But at length, as I was going over a sandy stretch, I heard hoof-beats behind me, and the sound grew, and I knew that some night rider was following fast. What is he? A rebel or a Federal? Loud ring the strokes of the horse's irons and louder behind me; I must run or I must slip aside.

I chose to let him pass. To be pursued would have been to throw up the game; all then would have been lost. I left the road and hid in the shadowy woods. On came the rider, and as the thundering hoofs hit the road within ten paces of my stand, I saw again the black horse belly to the ground in the moonlight.

Almost at once I started in pursuit. I would keep this man before me; if he should run upon rebels, the alarm would reach me; so long as he should be in my front, safety for me was at the front and danger elsewhere. I pursued, keeping within sight where the road stretches were long, going slowly where the ground was hard, lest the noise of my approach should be heard. Yet I had no difficulty; the courier was straining every nerve to reach his destination, and regarded not his rear. He crossed roads in haste, and by this I knew that the road was to him familiar; he paused never, but kept his horse at an even gallop through forest and through field, while I followed by jerks, making my horse run at times, and again, fearing I was too near, bringing him back to slower speed. For miles I followed the black horse.

But now I saw that the night was further spent than I had supposed; light was coming behind me, and the moon was low in the west. How far to the end? The black horse is going more slowly; he has gone many weary miles more than mine has gone; his rider is urging him to the utmost; I can see him dig his spurs again and again into the sides of the noble beast, and see him strike, and I see him turn where the road turns ahead of me, and I ride faster to recover him; and now I see black smoke rising at my right hand, and I hear the whistle of the Union steam vessels, and I almost cry for joy, and at the turning of the road my horse rears and almost throws me to the ground, and I see the black horse lying dead, and I spur my horse to pass, and give a cry of terror as a man springs from the left, with carbine presented, and shouts, "Your horse! your horse! Dismount at once, or I'll blow your brains out!"

For the rider of the black horse was a Confederate!

Shall I ever forget that moment of dismay and anguish? Even as I write the thrill of horror returns, and I see a picture of the past:—the daybreak; a lonely road in the forest; two men and two horses, each pair as unlike as life and death, for one's horse was dead and the other man was about to die. Had I been so utterly foolish! Why had I conceived absolutely that this rider was a Federal? How could a Federal know the road so well that he had gone over it at full speed, never hesitating, never deflecting into a wrong course? The instant before, I had been in heaven, for I had known my safe destination was at hand; now, I felt that my end had come to me, for my terror was for myself and not for a lost mission, and I cannot remember that in that smallest second of time any other hope was in me but that of riding this man down and reaching our troops with a mortal bullet in my body.

In a second the world may be changed—in a second the world was changed. I saw my captor's gun drop from his hands; I saw his hands go up. I looked round; in the road behind me—blessed sight—were two Union soldiers with their muskets levelled at the man in gray.

"Take me at once to General Franklin."

Again I was thunderstruck—two voices had shouted the same words!

The revulsion turned me stomach-sick; the rider of the black horse was a Federal in disguise!

* * * * *

General Franklin advanced, and met the enemy advancing. For no error on my part, my mission was a failure.

"How could you know the road so well for the last ten miles of it?" I asked of Jones, the rider of the black horse.

"That horse was going home!"

"A horse captured from the rebels?"

"No; impressed only yesterday from a farmer near the landing. You see he had already made that road and was not in the best condition to make it again so soon; then I had to turn about more than once. I suppose that horse must have made nearly a hundred miles in twenty-four hours."

Jones was of Porter's escort, and had on this occasion served as General Porter's messenger.

On the next day, the 8th, I returned to the Sanitary Camp.



XIV

OUT OF SORTS

"Your changed complexions are to me a mirror Which shows me mine changed too; for I must be A party in this alteration, finding Myself thus altered with it."—SHAKESPEARE.

It would have been quite impossible for me to analyze my feeling for Dr. Khayme. His affection for me was unconcealed, and I was sure that no other man was received as his companion—not that he was distant, but that he was not approached. By nature I am affectionate, but at that time my emotions were severely and almost continually repressed by my will, because of a condition of nervous sensitiveness in regard to the possibility of an exposure of my peculiarity, so that I often wondered whether the Doctor fully understood the love and reverence I bore him.

On the morning following the day last spoken of—that is to say, on the morning of May 9th—Dr. Khayme rode off to the old William and Mary College, now become a hospital, leaving me to my devices, as he said, for some hours. I was sitting on a camp-stool in the open air, busily engaged in cleaning my gun and accoutrements, when I saw a man coming toward me. It was Willis.

"Where is the Doctor?" he asked.

"Gone to the hospital; want to see him?"

"That depends."

"He will be back in an hour or two. Boys all right?" I brought out a camp-stool; Willis remained standing.

"Oh, yes; what's left of 'em. Say, Berwick, what's this I hear about your being detailed for special work?"

"So," said I.

"What in the name o' God will you have to do?"

Willis's tone was not so friendly as I had known it to be; besides, I had observed that he called me Berwick rather than Jones. His attitude chilled me. I did not wish to talk to him about myself. We talk about personal matters to personal friends. I suppose, too, that I am peculiar in such things; at any rate, so great was my distaste to talking now with Willis on the subject in question that I did not succeed in hiding my feeling.

"Oh," says he, "you needn't say it if you don't want to."

"I feel," said I, "as though I should be speaking of personal matters, perhaps too personal."

"Well, I don't want to force myself on anybody," said he; then he asked, "How long are you going to stay with Dr. Khayme?"

It flashed upon me in an instant that Willis was jealous,—not of the little distinction that had been shown me,—but in regard to Lydia, and I felt a great desire to relieve him of any fear of my being or becoming his rival. Yet I did not see how I could introduce a subject so delicate. In order to gain time, I replied: "Well, I don't know exactly; I am subject to orders from brigade headquarters. If no orders come, I shall stay here a day or two; if we march, I suppose I shall march with the company, unless the division is in the rear."

"If the division marches and Dr. Khayme remains here, what will you do?" he asked.

This was increasing, I thought; to encourage him to proceed, I asked, "Why do you wish to know?"

"Because," said he, hesitatingly, "because I think you ought to show your hand."

"Please tell me exactly what you mean by that," said I.

"You know very well what I mean," he replied.

"Let us have no guesswork," said I; "if you want to say anything, this is a good time for saying it."

"Well, then, I will," said he; "you know that I like Miss Lydia."

"Well?"

"And I thought you were my friend."

"I am your friend."

"Then why do you get into my way?"

"If I am in your way, it is more than I know," said I; "what would you have me to do?"

"If you are my friend, you will keep out of my way."

"Do you mean to say that I ought not to visit the Doctor?"

"If you visit the Doctor, you ought to make it plain to him why you visit him."

"Sergeant," said I; "Dr. Khayme knows very well why I visit him. I have no idea that he considers me a bidder for his daughter."

"Well; you may be right, and then again, you may be wrong."

"And you would have me renounce Dr. Khayme's society in order to favour your hopes?"

"I did not say that. You are perfectly welcome to Dr. Khayme's company; but I do think that you ought not to let him believe that you want Miss Lydia."

"Shall I tell him that you say that?"

"I can paddle my own canoe; you are not my mouthpiece," he replied angrily.

"Then would you have me tell him that I do not want Miss Lydia?"

"Tell him what you like, or keep silent if you like; all I've got to say is that if you are my friend you will not stand in my way."

"It seems to me, Sergeant," said I, "that you are forcing me into a very delicate position. For me to go to Dr. Khayme and explain to him that my attachment to him is not a piece of hypocrisy played by me in order to win his daughter, would not be satisfactory to the Doctor or to me, or even to Miss Khayme."

"Why not to her?" he asked abruptly.

"Because my explanation could not be made except upon my assumption that she supposes me a suitor; it would amount to my saying, 'I don't want you,' and more than that, as you can easily see. I decline to put myself into such a position. I prefer to assume that she does not regard me as a suitor, and that the Doctor receives me only as an old pupil. I beg you to stay here until the Doctor comes, and talk to him yourself. I can promise you one thing: I shall not hinder you; I'll give you a clear field."

"Do you mean to say that you will give me a clear field with Miss Lydia?"

"Not exactly that, but very nearly. You have no right to expect me to say to anybody that Miss Lydia does not attract me, and it would be silly, presumptuous, conceited in me to yield what I have not. I can tell you this: I have not spoken a word to Miss Lydia that I would not speak to any woman, or to any man for that matter, and I can say that I have not one degree of claim upon her."

"Then you will keep out of my way?"

"I repeat that I am not in your way. If I should say that I will keep out of your way, I would imply what is not true; the young lady is absolutely free so far as I am concerned."

At this point the Doctor came up. He shook hands with Willis and went into his tent. I urged Willis to follow, but he would not. I offered to lead the conversation into the matter in which he was so greatly interested, but he would not consent.

The Doctor reappeared. "Lydia will be here to-night," he said.

"You surprise me, Doctor."

"Yes; but I am now pretty sure that we shall be here for a week to come, and we shall not move our camp before the rear division moves. Lydia will find enough to do here."

Willis soon took his leave. I accompanied him for a short distance; on parting with him I told him that he might expect to see me again at night.

"What!" said he; "you are going to leave the Doctor?"

"Yes," I replied; "expect me to-night."

Willis looked puzzled; he did not know what to say, and said nothing.

When I entered the Doctor's tent, I found him busily writing. He looked up, then went on with his work. Presently, still continuing to write, he said, "So Willis is angry."

"Why do you say so, Doctor?"

"Anybody could have seen it in his manner," said he.

I tried to evade. "He was out of sorts," said I.

"What does 'out of sorts' mean?" asked the Doctor. Then, before I could reply, he continued: "I have often thought of that expression; it is a good one; it means to say gloomy, depressed, mentally unwell, physically ill perhaps. Yes, Willis is out of sorts. Out of sorts means mixed, unclassified, unassorted, having one's functions disordered. One who cannot separate his functions distinctly is unwell and, necessarily, miserable. Willis showed signs of dementia; his brain is not acting right. I think I can cure him."

I said nothing. In the Doctor's tone there was not a shade of sarcasm.

He continued: "Perfect sanity would be impossible to predicate of any individual; doubtless there are perfectly sane persons, that is, sane at times, but to find them would be like finding the traditional needle. I suppose our good friend Willis would rank higher than the average, after all is said."

"Willis is a good soldier," said I, "and a good sergeant."

"Yes, no doubt he is; he ought to know that he is just the man for a soldier and a sergeant, and be content."

Now, of course, I knew that Dr. Khayme, by his clear knowledge of nature, not to say more, was able to read Willis; but up to this time I had not suspected that Willis's hopes in regard to Lydia had alarmed or offended my learned friend; so I continued to beat round the subject.

"I cannot see," said I, "why Willis might not aspire to a commission. If the war continues, there will be many chances for promotion."

"The war will continue," he said, "and Willis may win a commission. The difference between a lieutenant and a sergeant is greater in pay than in qualification; in fact, a good orderly-sergeant is a rarer man than a good captain. Let Willis have his commission. Let that be his ambition, if he persists in murdering people."

The Doctor was yet writing busily. I wondered whether his words were intended as a hint for me to speak to Willis; of course I could do nothing of the kind. I felt that this whole affair was very delicate. Willis had gone so far as to make me infer that he was very much afraid of me: why? Could it be possible that he saw more than I could see? No, that was a suggestion of mere vanity; he simply dreaded Dr. Khayme's well-known partiality for me; he feared, not me, but the Doctor. I was uneasy. I examined myself; I thought of my past conduct in regard to Lydia, and found nothing to condemn. I had been rather more distant, I thought, than was necessary. I must preserve this distance.

"Doctor," said I, "good-by till to-morrow; I shall stay with the company to-night."

He looked up. "You will see Willis?"

"Yes, sir; I suppose so."

"You might say to him, if you think well, that I thought he left us rather abruptly to-day, and that I don't think he is very well."

"I hope to see you again to-morrow, Doctor."

"Very well, my boy; good-by till to-morrow; you will find me here by ten o'clock."

When I reached the company I did not see Willis; he was off on duty somewhere. On the next morning, however, he came in, and everything passed in the friendliest way possible, at first. Evidently he was pleased with me for absenting myself from Lydia. But he soon learned that I was to return to the Sanitary Camp, and his countenance changed at once.

"What am I to think of you?" he asked.

"I trust you will think well of me," I replied; "I am doing you no wrong. You are not well. The Doctor noticed it."

"He said that I was not well?"

"Yes."

"Well, he is wrong for once; I am as well as I ever was in my life."

"He said you left very suddenly yesterday."

"I suppose I did leave suddenly; but I saw no reason to remain longer."

"Willis," said I, "let us talk seriously. Why do you not speak to Miss Lydia and her father? Why not end this matter one way or the other?"

"I haven't seen Miss Lydia since you left us in February," said he; "how can I speak to her?"

"But you can speak to Dr. Khayme."

"Yes, I could speak to Dr. Khayme, but I don't consider him the one to speak to first, and to tell you the truth I'm afraid of it. It's got to be done, but I feel that I have no chance; that's what's hurting me."

"Then I'd have it over with, as soon as possible," said I.

"That's easier said than done; but I intend to have it over; it's doing me no good. I wish I'd never seen her."