"Why don't you write?"

"I've thought of that, but I concluded I wouldn't. It looked cowardly not to face the music."

"My dear fellow," said I, "there is no cowardice in it at all. You ought to do it, or else bury the whole thing, and I don't suppose you can do that."

"No, I can't do that; if I don't see her shortly, I shall write."

I was very glad to hear this. From what he had just said, coupled with my knowledge of the Doctor and of Lydia, I did not think his chance worth a penny, and I felt certain that the best thing for him to do was to bring matters to a conclusion. He would recover sooner.

At ten o'clock I was with Dr. Khayme. He told me that Lydia had arrived in the night, and that he had just accompanied her to the hospital.

"And how is our friend Willis to-day?" he asked; "is he a little less out of sorts?"

"He is friendly to-day, Doctor."

"Did you tell him that I remarked about his abrupt manner?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. I now I want to talk to you about your future work, Jones. I have thought of your suggestion that you wear Confederate uniform, while scouting."

"And you do not oppose it?"

"Decide for yourself. I cannot conscientiously take part in war; all I can do is to endeavour to modify its evil, and try to turn it to good."

The Doctor talked long and deeply upon these matters, and ended by saying that he would get me Confederate clothing from some wounded prisoner. Then he began a discussion of the principles which the respective sections were fighting for.

"Doctor," said I; "awhile ago, when I was urging that a scout would be of greater service to his cause if he disguised himself, as my friend Jones does, you seemed to doubt my assertion that the best thing for the rebels was their quick defeat."

"I remember it."

"Please tell me what you have in mind."

"It is this, Jones: America must be united, or else dis-severed. I believe in the world-idea; although I condemn this war, I believe in the Union. The difference between us is, that I do not believe and you do believe that the way to preserve the Union is going to war. But war has come. Now, since it has come, I think I can see that an easy defeat of the Southern armies will not bring about a wholesome reunion. For the people of the two sections to live in harmony, there must be mutual respect, and there must be self-respect. An easy triumph over the South would cause the North great vainglory and the South great humiliation. Granting war, it should be such as to effect as much good and as little harm as possible. The South, if she ever comes back into the Union respecting herself, must be exhausted by war; she must be able to know that she did all she could, and the North must know that the South proved herself the equal of the North in everything manly and respectable. So I say that I should fear a future Union founded upon an easy submission; there would be scorners and scorned—not friends."



XV

WITH THE DOCTOR ON THE RIGHT

"The respects thereof are nice and trivial, All circumstances well considered." —SHAKESPEARE.

For some days the brigade remained near Williamsburg. We learned that a part of the army had gone up York River by water, and was encamped near White House, and that General McClellan's headquarters were at or near that place.

Then the division moved and camped near Roper's Church. We heard that the rebels had destroyed the Merrimac. Heavy rains fell. Hooker's division was still in reserve, and had little to do except to mount camp guard. I had nothing to do. We had left Dr. Khayme in his camp near Williamsburg.

I had not seen Lydia, Willis's manner changed from nervousness to melancholy. It was a week before he told me that he had written to Miss Lydia, and had been refused. The poor fellow had a hard time of it, but he fought himself hard, and I think I helped him a little by taking him into my confidence in regard to my own troubles. I was moved to do this by the belief that, if I should tell Willis about my peculiarities, which in my opinion would make marriage a crime for me, he would find companionship in sorrow where he had thought to find rivalry, and cease to think entirely of his own unhappiness. I was not wrong; he seemed to appreciate my intention and to be softened. I endeavoured also to stir up his ambition as a soldier, and had the great pleasure of seeing him begin seriously to study tactics and even strategy.

From Roper's Church we moved by short marches in rear of the other divisions of the army, until, on the 21st, we were near the Chickahominy, and still in reserve. Here I received a note from the Doctor, who informed me that his camp was just in our rear. I went at once.

"Well," said he, "how do you like doing nothing?"

"I haven't quite tired of it yet," I said.

"Your regiment has had a good rest."

"I wonder how much longer we shall be held in reserve."

"A good while yet, to judge from what I can hear," he said. "I am authorized to move to the right, and of course that means that I shall be in greater demand there."

"I wish I could go with you," said I.

"Why should you hesitate to do so?" he asked; "what are your orders?"

"There has been no change. I have no orders at all except to keep the adjutant of the Eleventh informed as to my whereabouts."

"How frequently must you report in person?"

"There was nothing said about that. I suppose a note will do," said I.

"Your division was so severely handled at Williamsburg that I cannot think it will be brought into action soon unless there should be a general engagement. If you can report in writing every two or three days, you need not limit your work or your presence to any particular part of the line."

"But the right must be many miles from our division."

"No," said the Doctor; "from Hooker's division to your present right is not more than five miles; the distance will be greater, though, in a few days."

"What is going on, Doctor?"

"McDowell is at Fredericksburg, with a large Confederate force in his front, and—but let me get a map and show you the situation."

He went to a small chest and brought out a map, which he spread on a camp-bed.

"Here you see Fredericksburg; McDowell is just south of it. Here, about this point, called Guiney's, is a Confederate division under General Anderson. McClellan has urged Washington to reenforce his right by ordering McDowell to march, thus," describing almost a semicircle which began by going south, then southeast, then southwest; "that would place McDowell on McClellan's right flank, here. Now, if McDowell reenforces McClellan, this entire army cannot cross the Chickahominy, and if McDowell does not reenforce McClellan, this entire army cannot cross the Chickahominy."

"Then in neither event can this army take Richmond," said I.

"Don't go too fast; I am speaking of movements for the next ten days; afterward, new combinations may be made. In case McDowell comes, it will take ten days for his movement to be completed, and your right wing would move to meet him if need be, rather than move forward and leave him. To move forward would expose McDowell's flank to the Confederates near Guiney's, and it is feared that Jackson is not far from them. Am I clear?"

"Yes; it seems clear that our right will not cross; but suppose McDowell does not come."

"In that case," said the Doctor, "for McClellan's right to cross the Chickahominy would be absurd, for the reason that a Confederate force, supposed to be from Jackson's army, has nearly reached Hanover Court-House—here—in the rear of your right, if you advance; besides, to cross the Chickahominy with the whole army would endanger your supplies. You see, this Chickahominy River is an awkward thing to cross; if it should rise suddenly, the army on the south side might starve before the men could get rations; all that the Confederates would have to do would be to prevent wagon trains from crossing the bridges. And another thing—defeat, with the river behind the army, would mean destruction. McClellan will not cross his army; he will throw only his left across."

"But why should he cross with any at all? It seems to me that with a wing on either side, he would be in very great danger of being beaten in detail."

"You are right in that. But he feels compelled to do something; he makes a show of advancing, in order to keep up appearances; the war department already thinks he has lost too much time and has shown too little aggressiveness. McClellan is right in preferring the James River as a base, for he could there have a river on either flank, and his base would be protected by the fleet; but this theory was overthrown at first by the Merrimac, and now that she is out of the way the clamour of the war department against delay prevents a change of base. So McClellan accepts the York as his base, but prepares, or at least seems to prepare, for a change to the James, by throwing forward his left."

"But the left has not been thrown forward."

"It will be done shortly."

"What would happen if McDowell should not be ordered to reenforce us?"

"McDowell has already been ordered to reenforce McClellan, and the order has been countermanded. The Washington authorities fear to uncover Washington on account of Jackson's presence in the Shenandoah Valley. If McDowell remains near Fredericksburg 'for good,' as we used to say in South Carolina, McClellan will be likely to get everything in readiness, then wait for his opportunity, and throw his right wing also across the Chickahominy, with the purpose of ending the campaign in a general engagement before his supplies are endangered. But this will take time. So I say that no matter what happens, except one thing, there will be nothing done by Hooker for ten days; he will stay in reserve."

"What is that one thing which you except, Doctor?"

"A general attack by the Confederates."

"And you think that is possible?"

"Always possible. The Confederates are quick to attack." "And you think they are ready to attack?"

"No; I think there is no reason to expect an attack soon, at any rate a general attack; but when McClellan throws his left wing over the Chickahominy, the Confederates may attack then."

"Then I ought to be with my regiment," said I.

"Yes," said he; "unless your regiment does not need you, or unless somebody else needs you more. Hooker will not be engaged unless your whole left is engaged; you may depend upon that. There is no possibility of an action for a week to come, and unless the Confederates attack, there will be no action for a month."

"Then we ought by all means to learn whether the Confederates intend to attack," said I.

"That is the conclusion of the argument," said the Doctor; "you can serve your cause better in that way than in any other way. You are free to go and come on any part of your lines. The right is the place for you."

"How do you learn all these things, Doctor?"

"By this and that; it requires no great wisdom to enable any one to see that both armies are in need of delay. McClellan is begging every day for reenforcements; the Confederates are waiting and are being reenforced."

"And you are firm in your opinion that I shall risk nothing by going with you?"

"I am sure that you will risk nothing so far as absence from your regiment is concerned, and I am equally sure that your opportunities for service will be better."

"In case I go with you to the right, I must find a means of reporting to the adjutant almost daily."

"That will be done easily enough; in any emergency I can send a man."

It was arranged, therefore, that I should remain with Dr. Khayme, who, on the 22d, moved his camp far to the right, in rear of General Porter's command, which we found supporting Franklin, whose troops were nearer the Chickahominy and behind New Bridge.

Before leaving the regiment I reported to the adjutant, telling him where I could be found at need, and promising to send in further reports if Dr. Khayme's camp should be moved. At this period of the campaign there was but little activity anywhere along our lines; in fact, the lines had not been fully developed, and, as there was a difficult stream between us and the enemy, there was no room for enterprise. Here and there a reconnaissance would be made in order to learn something of the position of the rebels on the south side of the river, but such reconnaissances consisted mostly in merely moving small bodies of our troops up to the swamp and getting them fired upon by the Confederate artillery posted on the hills beyond the Chickahominy. On this day, the 22d, while Dr. Khayme and I were at dinner, we could hear the sounds of guns in two places, but only a few shots.

"I have your uniform, Jones," said the Doctor.

"From a wounded prisoner?"

"Yes; but you need fear nothing. It has seen hard service, but I have had it thoroughly cleaned. It is not the regulation uniform, perhaps, since it has the South Carolina State button, but in everything else it is the correct thing."

"I hope I shall not need it soon," said I.

"Why? Should you not wish to end this miserable affair as quickly as possible?"

"Oh, of course; but I shall not put on rebel clothing as long as I can do as well with my own,"

"There is going to be some murderous work up the river—or somewhere on your right—in a day or two," said the Doctor. "General Butterfield has given stringent orders for no man to leave camp for an hour."

"Who is General Butterfield?"

"He commands a brigade in Porter's corps. We are just in rear of his camp—Morell's division."

"And you suppose that his order indicates the situation here?"

"Yes; evidently your troops are prepared to move. I am almost sorry that I have sent for Lydia to come."

"And they will move to the right?"

"Unquestionably; there is no longer any doubt that your right flank is threatened."

"Then why not fall back to the left?"

"McClellan cannot afford personally to make any movement that would look like retreat. Your right is threatened, and your right will hold; it may attack."

"Doctor, why is it that you always say your instead of our?"

"Because I am neutral," said the Doctor.

"But your sympathies are with us."

"Only in part; the Southern cause is weak through slavery, but strong in many other points. I think we have discussed this before."

That we had done so did not prevent us from discussing it again. The Doctor seemed never to tire of presenting arguments for the complete abolition of slavery, while his even balance of mind allowed him to sympathize keenly with the political contention of the South.

We had been talking for half an hour or so, when we heard some one approaching.

The Doctor rose and admitted an officer. I saluted; then I was presented to Captain Auchmuty, of General Morell's staff.

"I am afraid that my visit will not prove pleasant, Doctor," he said. "General Morell has learned that Mr. Berwick is here, and proposes to borrow him, if possible."

The captain looked first at Dr. Khayme, and then at me; the Doctor looked at me; I looked at the ground.

The captain continued, "Of course, General Morell understands that he is asking a favour rather than giving an order; but if he knows the circumstances, he believes you are ready to go anywhere you may be needed."

"General Morell is very kind," said I; "may I know what work is required of me?"

"Nothing is required; that is literally true." said Captain Auchmuty. "General Morell asks a favour; if you will be so good as to accompany me to his tent, you shall have the matter explained."

The courtesy with which General Morell was treating me—for he could just as easily have sent for me by his orderly—made me think myself his debtor.

"I will go with you, Captain," said I; "good-by, Doctor."

"No," said the captain; "you will not be taken so suddenly. I promise that you may return in an hour."



XVI

BETWEEN THE LINES

"Here stand, my lords; and send discoverers forth, To know the number of our enemies." —SHAKESPEARE.

In General Morell's tent were two officers, afterward known to me as Generals Morell and Butterfield. It was not yet quite dark.

The officer who had conducted me, presented me to General Morell. In the conversation which followed, General Butterfield seemed greatly interested, but took no part at all.

General Morell spoke kindly to me. "I have sent for you," he said, "because I am told that you are faithful, and that you are prudent as well as accurate. We need information, and I hope you will get it for us."

"I am willing to do my best, General," said I, "provided that my absence is explained to General Grover's satisfaction."

"It is General Grover himself who recommends you," said he; "he is willing to let us profit by your services while his brigade is likely to remain inactive. I will show you his note."

Captain Auchmuty handed me an open note; I read from General Grover the expression used by General Morell.

"This is perfectly satisfactory, General," I said; "I will do my best for you."

"No man can do more. Now, come here. Look at this map, which you will take with you if you wish."

The general moved his seat up to a camp-bed, on which he spread the map. I was standing; he made me take a seat near him.

"First, I will show you generally what I want you to do; how you are to do it, you must decide for yourself. Here," said he, putting the point of his pencil on the map, "here is where we are now. Up here is Hanover Junction, with Hanover Court-House several miles this side—about this spot. You are to get to both places and find out if the enemy is at either, or both, and in what force. If he is not at either place, you are to move along the railroad in the direction of Richmond, until you find the enemy."

"Are there not two railroads at Hanover Junction, General?"

"Yes, the Virginia Central and the Richmond and Fredericksburg; they cross at the Junction."

"Which railroad shall I follow?"

"Ah, I see you are careful. It will be well for you to learn something of the situation on both of them; but take the Central if you are compelled to choose—the one nearest to us."

"Well, sir."

"If no enemy is found within eight or ten miles of the Junction, you need not trouble yourself further; but if he is found in say less than eight miles of the Junction, you are to diligently get all the knowledge you can of his position, his force in all arms, and, if possible, his purposes."

"I suppose that by the enemy you mean some considerable body, not a mere scouting party."

"Yes, of course. Hunt for big game. Don't bother with raiders or foragers."

"The Junction seems to be on the other side of the Pamunkey River," said I.

"Yes; it is between the North Anna and the South Anna, which form the Pamunkey a few miles below the Junction."

"Then, supposing that I find the rebels in force at Hanover Court-House, would there be any need for me to go on to the Junction?"

"None at all," said the general; "you would only be losing time; in case you find the enemy in force anywhere, you must return and inform us just as soon as you can ascertain his strength. But if you find no enemy at Hanover Court-House, or near it, or even if you find a small force, such as a party of cavalry, you should try to get to the Junction."

"Very well, General; how long do you expect me to be gone?"

"I can give you four days at the outside."

"Counting to-night?"

"No; beginning to-morrow. I shall expect you by the morning of the 27th, and shall hope to see you earlier."

"I shall not wish to be delayed," said I.

"You shall have horses; relays if you wish," said he.

"In returning shall I report to any officer I first chance to meet?" I asked.

"No; not unless you know the enemy to be particularly active; in that case, use your judgment; of course you would not let any force of ours run the risk of being surprised, but, all things equal, better reserve your report for me."

"And shall I find you here, sir?"

"If I am not here, you may report to General Butterfield; if this command moves, I will leave orders for you."

"At about what point will my danger begin, General?"

"You will be in danger from scouting parties of the rebel cavalry from the moment when you reach this point," putting his pencil on a spot marked Old Church, "and you will be delayed in getting around them perhaps. You have a full day to Hanover Court-House, and another day to the Junction, if you find that you must go there; that gives you two days more; but if you find the enemy at the Court-House, you may get back in three days."

"Why should I go by Old Church?"

"Well, it seems longer, but it will prove shorter in the end; the country between Old Church and Mechanicsville is neutral ground, and you would be delayed in going through it."



"Am I to report the conditions between Old Church and Hanover Court-House?"

"Take no time for that, but impress the character of the roads and the profile of the country on your mind—I mean in regard to military obstacles; of course if you find rebels in there, a force, I mean—look into them."

"Well, sir, I am ready."

"You may have everything you want; as many men as you want, mounted or afoot; can you start to-morrow morning, Berwick?"

"Yes, General; by daylight I want to be at Old Church. Please have a good man to report to me two hours before day."

"Mounted?"

"Yes, sir; and with a led saddle horse and three days' rations and corn—or oats would be better. Let him come armed."

"Very well, Berwick. Is that all?"

"Yes, sir; I think that will do. I suppose the man will know the road to Old Church."

"If not, I will send a guide along. Now, Berwick, good night, and good luck. You have my thanks, and you shall have more if your success will justify it."

"Good night, General. I will do my best."

* * * * *

Dr. Khayme argued that I should not make this venture in disguise, and I had great doubt what to do; however, I at last compromised matters by deciding to take the Confederate uniform to be used in case I should need it. A thought occurred to me: "Doctor," said I, "these palmetto buttons might prove a bad thing. Suppose I should get into a brigade of Georgians occupying some position where there are no other troops; what would a Carolinian be doing amongst them?"

"I have provided for that," said the Doctor; "you see that these buttons are fastened with rings; here are others that are smooth: all you have to do is to change when you wish—it takes but a few moments. However, nobody would notice your buttons unless you should be within six feet of him and in broad daylight."

"Yet I think it would be better to change now," said I; "there are more Confederates than Carolinians."

The Doctor assented, and we made the change. I put the palmetto buttons into my haversack.

Before I slept everything had been prepared for the journey. I studied the map carefully and left it with the Doctor. The gray clothing was wrapped in a gum-blanket, to be strapped to the saddle. My escort was expected to provide for everything else. I decided to wear a black soft hat of the Doctor's, whose head was as big as mine, although he weighed about half as much as I did. My own shoes were coarse enough, and of no peculiar make. In my pockets I put nothing except a knife, some Confederate money, some silver coin, and a ten-dollar note of the bank of Hamburg, South Carolina—a note which Dr. Khayme possessed and which he insisted on my taking. There would be nothing on me to show that I was a Union soldier, except my uniform. I would go unarmed.

Before daylight I was aroused. My man was waiting for me outside the tent. I intended to slip out without disturbing the Doctor, but he was already awake. He pressed my hand, but said not a word.

The man and I mounted and took the road, he leading.

"Do you know the way to Old Church?" I asked.

"Yes, sir," said he.

"What is your name?"

"Jones, sir; don't you know me?"

"What? My friend of the black horse?"

"Yes, sir."

"But I believe you are in blue this time."

"Yes; I got no orders."

I was glad to have Jones; he was a self-reliant man, I had already had occasion to know.

We marched rapidly, Jones always in the lead. The air was fine. The morning star shone tranquil on our right. Vega glittered overhead, and Capella in the far northeast, while at our front the handle of the Dipper cut the horizon. The atmosphere was so pure that I looked for the Pleiades, to count them; they had not risen.

We passed at first along a road on either side of which troops lay in bivouac, with here and there the tent of some field officer; then parks of artillery showed in the fields; then long lines of wagons, with horses and mules picketed behind. Occasionally we met a horseman, but nothing was said to him or by him.

Now the encampment was behind us, and we rode along a lane where nothing was seen except fields and woods.

"Jones," said I; "are you furnished with credentials?"

"Yes, sir," he replied; "if our pickets or patrols stop us, I can satisfy them."

At daylight we were halted. Jones rode forward alone, then returned and explained that our post would admit us. We passed a mounted vedette, and then went on for a few hundred yards until we came to a crossroad.

"We are at Old Church," said Jones.

"And we have nobody here?" I asked.

"Yes, sir; our men are over there, but I suppose we are to take the left here; we have another picket-post half a mile up the road."

"Then we will stop with them and breakfast," said I. We took to the left—toward the west. At the picket-post the road forked; a blacksmith's shop was at the north of the road. The sun had nearly risen.

The picket consisted of a squad of cavalry under Lieutenant Russell. He gave me all the information he could. The right-hand road, by the blacksmith's shop, went across the Totopotomoy Creek near its mouth, he said, and then went on to the Pamunkey River, and at the place where it crossed the Pamunkey another road came in, running down the river from Hanover Court-House. He was sure that the road which came in was the road from Hanover to the ferry at Hanover Old Town; he believed the ferry had not yet been destroyed. This agreed with the map. I asked him where the left-hand road went. He said he thought it was the main road to Hanover Court-House; that it ran away from the river for a considerable distance, but united higher up with the river road. This also agreed with the map. I had scratched on the lining of my hat the several roads given on the map as the roads from Old Church to Hanover Court-House, so that, in case my memory should flag, I could have some resource, but I found that I could remember without uncovering.

The lieutenant could tell me little concerning distances; what he knew did not disaccord with my small knowledge. I asked him if he knew where the nearest post of the enemy was now. "They are coming and going," said he; "one day they will be moving, and then a day will pass without our hearing of them. If they have a post anywhere, I don't know it."

"And there are none of our men beyond this point?"

"No—nobody at all," said he.

Jones had given the horses a mouthful of oats, and we had swallowed our breakfast, the lieutenant kindly giving us coffee. For several reasons I thought it best to take the road to the left: first, it was away from the river, which the rebels were supposed to be watching closely; second, the distance seemed not so great; and, third, it was said to traverse a less populous region.

I had now to determine the order of our advance, and decided that we should ride forward alternately, at least until we should strike the crossing of the Totopotomoy Creek; so I halted Jones, rode forward for fifty yards or so, then stopped and beckoned to him to come on. As he went by me I told him to continue to advance until he should reach, a turn in the road; then he should halt and let me pass him. At the first stop he made I saw with pleasure that he had the good judgment to halt on the side of the road amongst the bushes. I now rode up to him in turn, and paused before passing.

"You have kept your eyes on the stretch, in front?" I asked.

"Yes, sir."

"And have seen nothing?"

"No, sir; not a thing."

"You understand why we advance in this manner?"

"Yes; I can watch for you, and you can watch for me, and both can watch for both."

"Yes, and not only that. We can hardly both be caught at the same time; one of us might be left to tell the tale."

I went on by. The road here ran through woods, but shortly a field was seen in front, with a house at the left of the road, and I changed tactics. When Jones had reached me, we rode together through the field, went on quickly past the house, and on to another thicket, in the edge of which we found a school-house; but just before reaching the thicket I made Jones follow me at the distance of some forty yards. I had made this change of procedure because I had been able to see that there was nobody in the stretch of road passing the house, and I thought it better for two at once to be exposed to possible view from the house for a minute than one each for a minute.

We had not seen a soul.

We again proceeded according to our first programme, I riding forward for fifty yards or so, and Jones passing me, and alternately thus until we saw, just beyond us, a road coming into ours from the southwest. On the north of our road, and about two hundred and fifty yards from the spot where we had halted, was a farmhouse, which I supposed was the Linney house marked on the map. The road at the left, I knew from the map, went straight to Mechanicsville and thence to Richmond, and I suspected that it was frequently patrolled by the rebel cavalry. We remained in hiding at a short distance from the house, and consulted. I feared to pass openly on the road—two roads, in fact—opposite the house, for discovery and pursuit at this time would mean the abortion of the whole enterprise. Every family in this section could reasonably be supposed to have furnished men to the Confederate army near by and, if we should be seen by any person whomsoever, there was great probability that our presence would be at once divulged to the nearest rebels. The result of our consultation was our turning back. We rode down toward Old Church until we came to a forest stretching north of the road, which we now left, and made through the woods a circuit of the Linney house, and reached the Hanover road again in the low grounds of Totopotomoy Creek. We had seen no one. The creek bottom was covered with forest and dense undergrowth. We crossed the creek some distance below the road, and kept in the woods for a mile without having to venture into the open.

It was about nine o'clock; we had made something like three miles since we had left Old Church.

In order to get beyond the next crossroad, it was evident that we must run some risk of being seen from four directions at once, or else we must flank the crossing.

By diverging to the right, we found woods to conceal us all the way until we were in sight of the crossroad. I dismounted, and bidding Jones remain, crept forward until I could see both ways, up and down, on the road. There were houses at my left—some two hundred yards off, and but indistinctly seen through the trees—on both sides of the road, but no person was visible. Just at my right the road sank between two elevations. I went to the hollow and found that from this position the houses could not be seen. I went back to Jones, and together we led our horses across the road through the hollow. We mounted and rode rapidly away through the woods, and reached the Hanover road at a point two miles or more beyond the Linney house.

We now felt that if there was any post of rebels in these parts it would be found behind Crump's Creek, which was perhaps half a mile at our left, running north into the Pamunkey. We turned to the left and made for Crump's Creek. We found an easy crossing, and we soon reached the Hanover river road, within four miles, I thought, of Hanover Court-House.

And now our danger was really to become immediate, and our fear oppressive. We were in sight of the main road running from Hanover Court-House down the Pamunkey—a road that was no doubt covered by the enemy's plans, and on which bodies of his cavalry frequently operated. If the force at Hanover Court-House, or the Junction, were seeking to get to the rear of McClellan's right wing, this would be the road by which it would march; this road then, beyond all question, was constantly watched, and there was strong probability that rebels were kept posted in good positions upon it. But for the fact that I might find it necessary to reach the Junction, I should now have gone forward afoot.

I decided to use still greater circumspection in going farther forward, and to get near the enemy's post, if there should prove to be one, at the Court-House, only after nightfall. Thus we had from ten o'clock until dark—nine hours or more—in which to make our gradual approach.

The country was so diversified with woods and fields that we found it always possible to keep within shelter. When we lost sight of the road, Jones or I would climb a tree. By making great detours we went around every field, consuming much time, it is true, but we had plenty of time. We avoided every habitation, and chose the thickest of the woods and the deepest of the hollows, and so conducted our advance that, remarkable as it may seem, from the time we left our outposts at Old Church until we came in sight of the enemy near Hanover Court-House, we did not see a human being, though the distance traversed must have been fully twelve miles. Of course, I knew that it was very likely that we ourselves had been seen by more than one frightened inhabitant, but it was my care to keep at such a distance from every dwelling house that no one there could tell whether we were friend or enemy.

At noon we took our ease in a hollow in the midst of a thicket. While we were resting we heard far to our rear a distant sound that resembled the discharge of artillery. We learned afterward that the sound came from Mechanicsville, occupied this day by the advance of McClellan's right.

About two o'clock we again set out. We climbed a hill from which we could see over a considerable stretch of country. The field in front of us was large; it would require a long detour to avoid the open space. Still, we were not pressed for time, and I was determined to be prudent. The only question was whether we should flank the field at the right or at the left. From our point of observation, it seemed to me that the field in front stretched sufficiently far in the north to reach the Hanover road; if this were true our only course was by the left. To be as nearly sure as possible, I sent Jones up a tree. I regretted very much that I had not brought a good field-glass, and wondered why General Morrell had not thought of it. Jones remained in the tree a long time; I had forbidden him speaking, lest the sound of his voice should reach the ear of some unseen enemy. When he came down he said that the road did go through the field and that there were men in the road.

I now climbed the tree in my turn, and saw very distinctly, not more than half a mile away, a small body of men in the road. They seemed to be infantry and to be stationary; but while I was looking they began to move in the direction of Hanover Court-House. There were bushes on the sides of the road where they were; soon they passed beyond the bushes, and I could see that the men were mounted. I watched them until they were lost to sight where the road entered the woods beyond. I had counted eleven; I supposed there were ten men under command of an officer.

It was now clear that we must flank the big field on its left. We acted with great caution. The fence stretched far beyond the corner of the field; we let down the fence, led our horses in, then put up the gap, and rode into the woods on the edge of the field. In some places the undergrowth was low, and we feared that our heads might be seen above our horses; in such places we dismounted. We passed at a distance one or two small houses—not dwellings, we thought, but field barns or cribs. At length we reached the western side of the field; we had gained greatly in position, though we were but little nearer to Hanover.

We supposed that we were almost half a mile from the road, and that we were in no pressing danger. When we had gone north about a quarter of a mile we dismounted, and while Jones remained with the horses, I crept through the woods until I could see the road. It was deserted. I crept nearer and nearer until I was almost on its edge; sheltered by the bushes I could see a long distance either way. At my left was a house, some two hundred yards away and on the far side of the road. I watched the house. The men I had seen in the road might have stopped in the house; there might be—indeed, there ought to be—an outpost near me, and this house would naturally be visited very often. But I saw nothing, and at last crept back into the woods for a short distance, and advanced again parallel with the road, until I came, as I supposed, opposite the house; then I crept up to the road again. I could now see the yard in front of the house, and even through the house from front to back door; it was a small house of but two rooms. It now began to seem as though the house was an abandoned one, in which case the rebels would likely never stop there, unless for water. I saw no well in the yard. There was no sign of life.

I turned again and sought the woods, and again advanced parallel with the road, until, in about three hundred yards, I could see a field in my front. This field ran up to the road, and beyond the road there was another field, the road running between rail fences. I returned to Jones, whom I found somewhat alarmed in consequence of my long absence, and we brought the horses up to the spot to which I had advanced. It was now about four o'clock, and we had yet three hours of daylight. Hanover could not be much more than two miles from us.

The field in front was not wide; it sloped down to a heavily wooded hollow, in which I judged there was a stream. As I was yet quite unsatisfied in regard to the house almost in our rear, I asked Jones to creep back and observe the place thoroughly.

He returned; I could see news in his face. "They are passing now," he said.

No need to ask who "they" meant. We took our horses deeper into the woods. There Jones told me that he had seen some thirty men, in two squads, more than a hundred yards apart, ride fast toward Hanover.

"But why could I not see them in the road yonder, as they went through the field?" I asked.

"Because the road there is washed too deep. Their heads would not show above the fence," he said.

I tried to fathom the meaning of the rapid movement of these small bodies of rebels, but could get nothing out of it, except the supposition that our cavalry had pushed on up the road after we had passed Old Church. There might be, and doubtless were, several attempts made this day to ascertain the position of the rebels.

No crossing of that road now and trying the rebel left! We went to the left of the field. It was about five o'clock. We reached the foot of a hill and saw a small creek ahead of us. I now felt that I must go forward alone.

To make sure that I could find Jones again, I stationed him in the creek swamp near the corner of the field. We agreed upon a signal.

I crept forward through the swamp, converging toward the road. I crossed the stream, and reached a point from which I could see the road; it ran up a hill; on the hill I could see a group of men. Here, I was convinced, was the Confederate picket-line, if there was a line.

A thick-topped tree was growing some thirty yards from the edge of the road; from its boughs I could see mounted men facing east, nearer to me than the group above. The sun had nearly set; it shone on sabres and carbines. I was hoping there was no infantry picket-line. I came down from the tree, returned rapidly to Jones, and got ready. I told him to make himself comfortable for the night, and to wait for me no longer than two o'clock the next day. The package containing the gray clothing I took with me. I would not put it on until I should see that nothing else would do.

And now, feeling that it was for the last time, I again went forward. I had decided to try to penetrate the picket-line if I should find it to be a very long line; if it proved to be a line that I could turn, I would go round it, and when on its flank I would act as opportunity should offer. If the enemy's force were small, I might see it all from the outside; but if it consisted of brigades and divisions, I would put on the disguise and throw away my own uniform.

Twilight had deepened; on the hills in front fires were beginning to show. I reached the foot of the hill on which I had seen the rebel picket-post, and moved on slowly. I was unarmed, carrying nothing but the gray clothes wrapped in the gum-blanket.

The hill was spotted with clumps of low bushes, but there were no trees. At every step I paused and listened. I thought I could hear voices far away. Halfway up the hill I stopped; the voices were nearer—or louder, possibly.

I now ceased advancing directly up the hill; instead, I moved off at a right angle toward the left, trying to keep a line parallel with the supposed picket-line, and listening hard. A rabbit sprang up from almost under my feet. I was glad that it did not run up the hill. Voices continued to come to my ears, but from far away. I supposed that the line was more than three hundred yards from me, and that vedettes were between us; but for the vedettes, I should have gone nearer. I knew that I was in no great danger so long as the pickets would talk. The voices made me sure that these pickets did not feel themselves in the presence of an enemy. They evidently knew that they had bodies of cavalry on all the roads leading to their front. Possibly they were prepared for attack by any body of men, but they were not prepared against observation by one man; they were trusting their cavalry for that. So long, then, as I could hear the voices, I felt comparatively safe. The pickets could not see me, for I was down the hill from them—much below their sky line; if one of them should happen to be in their front for any purpose, he would think of me as I should think of him; he certainly would not suppose me an enemy; if he should be alarmed, I could get away.

So I continued moving along in the same direction, until I struck woods, where the hill ceased in a plateau; here I was on level ground, and I could see in the distance the light of camp-fires, between which and me I could not doubt were the pickets, if not indeed the main line also, of the enemy.

I kept on. The ground changed again, so that I looked down on the fires. I paused and reflected. This picket-line was long; it certainly covered more than a regiment or two. Again I wished that I were on the north side of the road.

The camp-fires now seemed more distant and a little to my right. I was beginning to flatter myself with the belief that I had reached the point where the picket-line bent back. I felt encouraged.

I retired some twenty yards, and then went on more boldly, still pursuing a course parallel, as I thought, with the picket-line fronting east. Soon I reached another road.

Should I cross this road? It ran straight, so far as I could see, into the position of the enemy; it was a wide road, no doubt one of the main roads leading to Hanover Court-House.

I looked up the road toward the enemy. I could see no camp-fires.

I thought that I had reached the enemy's flank.

A troop of cavalry rode by, going to their front.

I felt sure that I was right. I looked and found the north, star through the branches of the trees. I was right. This road ran north and south. The picket-line doubtless reached the road, or very near it, and bent back; but how far back? If the enemy depended upon cavalry for their flank,—and this flank was toward their main army at Richmond,—my work would be easy.

I crossed the road, and crept along it toward Hanover. More cavalry rode by. I kept on, doubting more strongly the existence of any infantry pickets.

An ambulance went by, going north into camp.

I went thirty yards deeper into the woods. I took everything out of my pockets, stripped off my uniform, and covered it with leaves as well as I could in the darkness. Then I put on the gray clothes and twisted the gum-blanket and threw it over my shoulder. I had resolved to accompany any ambulance or wagon that should come into the rebel camp.

Taking my station by the side of the road, I lay down and waited.

Again cavalry rode by, this squad also going to the front. I was now convinced that there was no picket-line here; this flank was protected by cavalry. Now I was glad that I had not tried the left flank of the rebel line.

I heard trains rolling, and they seemed not very far from me. I could hear the engines puffing.

From down the road toward Richmond came the crack of a whip. I saw a team coming—four or six mules, I could not yet tell in the night.

A heavy wagon came lumbering along. I was about to step out and get behind it, when I saw another; it passed, and still another came. As the last one went by I rose and followed it, keeping bent under the feed-box which, was slung behind it.

I marched thus into the rebel camp at Hanover Court-House.



XVII

THE LINES OF HANOVER

"Our scouts have found the adventure very easy."—SHAKESPEARE.

Soon the wagons turned sharply to the left, following, I thought, a new road cut for a purpose; now camp-fires could be seen again, and near by.

The cry of a sentinel was heard in front, and the wagons halted. I supposed that we were now to pass the camp guard, which, for mere form's sake, had challenged the Confederate teamsters; I crept entirely under the body of the wagon.

We moved on; I saw no sentinel; doubtless he had turned his back and was walking toward the other end of his beat.

The wagon, on its new road, was now passing to the right of an encampment; long rows of tents, with streets between, showed clearly upon a hill at the left. In the streets there were many groups of men; some of them were talking noisily; some were singing. It was easy to see that these men were in good spirits; they surely had not had a hard march that day. For my part, I was beginning to feel very tired; still, I knew that excitement would keep me going for this night, and for the next day, if need be.

The wagon passed beyond the tents; then, judging that it was to go on until it should be far in the rear, I stepped aside and was alone again, and with the Confederate forces between Jones and me.

I sat on the ground, and tried to think. It seemed to me that the worst was over. I was safer here than I had been an hour ago, while following up the picket-line—safer, perhaps, than I had been at any time that day. I was a Confederate surrounded by an army who wore the Southern uniform. Nothing less than stupidity on my part could lose me. I must still act cautiously—yet without the appearance of caution; that was a more difficult matter.

What I had to do now seemed very simple; it was merely the work of walking about and estimating the number of the rebels. To get out of these lines would not be any more difficult for me than for any other rebel.

But would not a man walking hither and thither in the night be accosted by some one?

Well, what of that? As soon as he sees me near, he will be satisfied.

But suppose some man asks you what regiment you belong to—what can you say?

Let me think. The troops here may be all Virginians, or all Georgians, and I am a South Carolinian.

The sweat rolled down my face—unwholesome sweat. I had allowed my imagination to carry me too far; I had really put myself in the place of a Carolinian for the moment; the becoming a Union soldier again was sudden, violent. I must guard against such transitions.

Seeing at last that hiding was not acting cautiously and without the appearance of caution, I rose and started for the camp-fires, by a great effort of will dominating my discomposure, and determining to play the Confederate soldier amongst his fellows. I would go to the men; would talk to them when necessary; would count their tents and their stacks of arms if possible; would learn, as soon as I could, the name of some regiment, so that if I were questioned I could answer.

But suppose you are asked your regiment, and give an appropriate answer, and then are asked for your captain's name—what can you say?

I beat off the fearful suggestion. Strong suspicion alone could prompt such, an inquiry. There was no more reason for these men to suspect my being a Union soldier than there was for me to suspect that one of these men was a Union soldier.

I was approaching the encampment from the rear. Two men overtook me, each bending under a load of many canteens. They passed me without speaking. I followed them—lengthening my step to keep near them—and went with them to their company. I stood by in the light of the fires while they distributed the canteens, or, rather, while they put the canteens on the ground, and their respective owners came and got them. The men did not speak to me.

I had hoped to find the Confederates in line of battle; they certainly ought to have been in line, and in every respect ready for action, but, instead, they were here in tents and without any preparation against surprise, so far as I could see, except the cavalry pickets thrown out on the roads. If they had been in line, it would have been easy for me to estimate the number of bayonets in the line of stacked arms; I was greatly disappointed. The tents seemed to me too few for the numbers of men who were at the camp-fires. I saw forms already stretched out on their blankets in the open air. Doubtless many men, in this mild weather, preferred to sleep outside of the crowded tents.

Hoping that something would be said to give me what I wanted to know, I sat down.

One of the men asked me for a chew of tobacco.

"Don't chaw," said I, mentally vowing that henceforth. I should carry some tobacco.

"Why don't you buy your own tobacco?" asked a voice.

The petitioner refused to reply.

A large man stood up; he took from his pocket a knife and a square of tobacco; he gravely approached the first speaker, cut off a very small portion, and handed it to him. The men looked on in silence at this act, which, seemingly, was nothing new to them. One of them winked at me. I inferred that the large man intended a rebuke to his comrade for begging from a stranger. The large man went back and sat down.

"Say, Doc, how long are we goin' to be here?"

"I wish I could tell you," said the large man.

There were seven men in the group around the fire; the eyes of all were upon the large man called Doc. He seemed a man of character and influence, though but a private. He turned to me.

"You are tired," he said.

I merely nodded assent. His remark surprised and disconcerted me, so that I could not find my voice. In a moment my courage had returned. The look of the man was the opposite of suspicious—it was sympathetic. He was not baldly curious. His attitude toward me might shield me from the curiosity of the others, if, indeed, they were feeling interest of any sort in me. I had been fearing that some one would ask me my regiment.

"I want to go home to my mammy!" screamed a voice at the next fire.

Nobody gave this yell the least notice. I supposed it a common saying with homesick soldiers.

I wondered what Doc and the other men were thinking of me. Perhaps I was thought a friend of one of the men who had brought the water; perhaps nobody thought anything, or cared anything, about me. Although I felt helpless, I would remain.

A torn envelope was lying on the ground, within a few inches of my hand. The addressed side was next the ground. My fears fled; accident had helped me—had given me a plan.

I turned the letter over. The address was:—

PRIVATE D.W. ROBERTS, Co. G, 7th N.C. Reg't, Branch's Brigade, Gordonsville, Va.

I rose. "I must be going," said I, and walked off down the street. The act, under the circumstances, did not seem to me entirely natural, but it was the best I could do; these men, I hoped, would merely think me an oddity.

In the next street I stopped at the brightest fire that I saw.

"This is not the Seventh, is it?" I asked.

"No," said one; "the Seventh is over there," pointing.

"What regiment is this?"

"Our'n," said he.

"Oh, don't be giving me any of your tomfoolery," said I.

"This is the Thirty-third," said another.

I went back toward the Seventh, passed beyond it, and approached another group. A man of this group rose and sauntered away toward the left. I followed him. I put my hand on his shoulder and said, "Hello, Jim! where are you going?"

He turned and said, "Hello yourself, if you want anybody to hello; but my name's not Jim."

"I beg your pardon," said I; "afraid I'm in the wrong pew; what regiment is this?"

"The Twenty-eighth," said he, and went on without another word.

The nature of the replies given me by my friends of the Thirty-third and Twenty-eighth made me feel nearly certain that all of Branch's regiments were from one State. I was supposed to belong to the brigade; it was needless to tell me the name of the State from which my regiment—from which all the regiments—came. Had the brigade been a mixed one, the men would have said, "Thirty-third North Carolina;" "Twenty-eighth North Carolina"; that they did not trouble themselves with giving the name of their State was strong reason for believing that all the regiments, as I knew the Seventh to be, were from North Carolina.

I continued my walk, picking up as I went several envelopes, which I thrust into my pocket. It must now have been about ten o'clock. The men had become silent; but few were sitting at the fires. I believed I had sufficient information as to the composition of the brigade, but I had learned little as to its strength. I knew that there were five streets in the encampment, and therefore five regiments in the brigade. But how many men were in the brigade?

Behind the rear regiment was a small cluster of wall-tents, which I took for brigade headquarters. At the head of every street was a wall-tent, which I supposed was the colonel's. At the left of the encampment of tents, and separated from the encampment by a space of a hundred yards, perhaps, was a line of brighter fires than now showed in the streets. The dying out of the fires in the streets was what called my attention, by contrast, to these brighter fires. I walked toward the bright fires; to my surprise I found troops in bivouac. I went boldly up to the nearest fire, and found two men cooking. I asked for a drink of water.

"Sorry, neighbour, but we hain't got nary nother drop," said one.

"An' we don't see no chance to git any," said the other.

"Don't you know where the spring is?" I asked.

"No; do you?"

"I don't know exactly," said I, "but I know the direction; it's down that way," pointing; "I've seen men coming from that way with canteens. You are mighty late getting supper."

"Jest ben relieved; we tuck the places of some men this mornin', an' they jest now got back an' let us loose."

"What duty were you on?"

"On guyard by that battery way over yander; 'twa'n't our time, but we went. Say, neighbour, wish't you'd show me the way to that water o' yourn. Dam'f I knowed the' was any water'n less'n a mile."

"I don't want to go 'way back there," said I; "but I'll tell you how to find it."

"Well, tell me then, an' tell me quick. I reckin if I can git started right, I'll find lots more a-goin'."

"Let me see," said I, studying; "you go over yonder, past General Branch's headquarters, and go down a hill through, the old field, and—let me see; what regiment is this?"

"This'n's the bloody Forty-fifth Georgy," said he; "we ain't no tar-heels; it's a tar-heel brigade exceptin' of us, but we ain't no tar-heels—no insult intended to you, neighbour."

"Oh, I don't mind being called a tar-heel," said I; "in fact, I rather like it."

"Well, wher's your water?"

"You know where the old field is?"

"No, I don't; we've jest got here last night. I don't know anything."

"You know headquarters?"

"Yes."

"Well, just go on down the hill, and you'll find a path in the old field"

The man picked up two canteens, and went off. I remained with his messmate.

"What battery was that you were talking about? I haven't seen a battery with the brigade in a week."

"Wher' have you ben that you hain't seed it?" he asked.

"Off on duty," said I.

"No wonder you hain't seed it, then; an' you mought ha' stayed with your comp'ny an' not ha' seed it then; you hain't seed it becaze it ain't for to be saw. They're put it away back yander."

"How many guns?"

"Some says six an' some says four; I didn't see 'em, myself."

"I don't understand why you didn't see the guns, if you were guarding the battery; and I don't see why the battery couldn't do its own guard duty."

"We wa'n't a-guyardin' no battery; we was a-guyardin' a house down by the battery."

"Oh, I see; protecting some citizen's property."

"That's so; pertectin' property an' gittin' hongry."

"That's Captain Brown's battery, is it not?"

"No, sirree! Hit's Latham's battery, though some does call it Branch's battery; but I don't see why. Jest as well call Hardeman's regiment Branch's, too."

"Which regiment is Hardeman's?"

"Our'n; it's with Branch's brigade now, but it ain't Branch's regiment, by a long shot."

"I hear that more troops are expected here," said I, at a venture.

"Yes, and I know they're a-comin'; some of 'em is at the Junction now—comin' from Fredericksburg. I heerd Cap'n Simmons say so this mornin'."

"We'll have a big crowd then," said I.

"What regiment is your'n?"

"'Eventh," said I, without remorse cancelling the difference between the Eleventh Massachusetts and the Seventh North Carolina.

The man moved about the fire, attending to his cooking. The talk almost ceased. I pulled an envelope from my pocket and began tearing it into little bits, which I threw into the fire one by one, pretending mere abstraction.

The envelope had borne the address:—

CAPTAIN GEORGE B. JOHNSTON, Co. G, 28th N.C. Reg't, Branch's Brigade, Hanover C.H., Va.

I took out another envelope. It was addressed to Lieut. E.G. Morrow, of the same company—Company G of the Twenty-eighth. A third bore the address:—

CAPTAIN S.N. STOWE, Co. B, 7th N.C. Reg't, Gordonsville, Va.

More envelopes went into the fire. They bore the names of privates, corporals, and sergeants; some were of the Eighteenth, others of the Thirty-seventh North Carolina Volunteers. One envelope had no address. Another gave me the name of Col. James H. Lane, but no regiment.

"Time your friend was getting back," said I.

"Seems to me so, too," said he; "but I reckin he found a crowd ahead of him."

"How many men in your regiment?" I asked.

"Dunno; there was more'n a thousand at first; not more'n seven or eight hundred, I reckin; how many in your'n?"

"About the same," I replied; "how many in your company?"

"Eighty-two," he said.

The other man returned from the spring.

"Know what I heerd?" he asked.

"No; what was it?" inquired his companion.

"I heard down thar at the branch that the Twelf' No'th Ca'lina was here summers."

"Well, maybe it is."

"I got it mighty straight."

"How did you hear it?" I asked.

"A man told me that one of Branch's couriers told him so; he had jest come from 'em; said they is camped not more'n two mile from here"

"Only the Twelfth? No other regiment?" I asked.

"Didn't hear of no other," he replied,

"I wonder what we are here for?" I ventured to say.

"Plain case," said he; "guyard the railroad."

My knowledge of the situation had vastly increased. Here was Branch's command, consisting of my North Carolina regiments and one from Georgia, and Latham's battery; another regiment was supposed to be near by. What more need I know? I must learn the strength of the force; I must get corroboration. The man with whom I had talked might be wrong on some point. I considered my friend's opinion correct concerning Branch's purpose. The Confederate force was put here to protect the railroad. From the envelopes I had learned that Branch's brigade had recently been at Gordonsville; it was clear that it had left Gordonsville in order to place itself between Anderson's force at Fredericksburg and Johnston's army at Richmond, and thus preserve communications. Branch had been reenforced by the Forty-fifth Georgia on the preceding day, and seemingly on this day by the Twelfth North Carolina. I supposed that General Morell could easily get knowledge from army headquarters of the last positions occupied by these two regiments, and I did not trouble myself to ask questions on this point. All I wanted now was corroboration and knowledge of numbers.

The men had eaten their supper. I left them, giving but slight formality to my manner of departure. I had made up my mind to seek the path to the spring. From such a body, thirsty men would be going for water all night long, especially as there seemed little of it near by. By getting near the spring I should also be able, perhaps, to determine the position of the wagons; I had decided to attempt going out of these lines in the manner of my entering them, if I could but find a wagon going before daylight.

It took some little time to find the spring, which was not a spring after all, but merely a pool in a small brook. I hid myself by the side of the path and waited; soon I heard the rattling of empty canteens and the footsteps of a man; I started to meet him.

"Say, Mister, do you know whar that spring is?"

"I know where the water is," said I; "it's a branch."

"Gosh! Branch's brigade ort to have a branch."

"You must have come in a hurry," said I; "you are blowing."

"Blowin'? Yes; blowed if I didn't come in a hurry, and blowed if I did; you've hit it!"

"What regiment do you belong to?"

"Thirty-seventh."

"Is that Colonel Lane's?"

"No; Lane's is the Twenty-eight. Colonel Lee is our colonel."

"Oh, yes; I got Lee and Lane mixed."

"What regiment is your'n?"

"'Eventh,"

"That's Campbell's," said he.

"You know the brigade mighty well. Here's your water," said I, sitting down while the man should fill his canteens.

"Know 'em all except these new ones," said he.

"That's the Forty-fifth Georgia," said I; "but I hear that more are coming. I heard that the Twelfth North Carolina is near by, and is under Branch."

"Yes; an' it's a fact," said he.

"Your regiment is bigger than ours, I believe," said I.

"Well, I dunno about that; how many men in your'n?"

"About seven or eight hundred, I reckon."

"Not much difference, then; but, I tell you what, that old Twenty-eighth is a whopper—a thousand men."

I said nothing; I could hear the gurgling of the water as it ran down the neck of the canteen. The man chuckled, "Branch's brigade ort to have a branch; blowed if it ortn't." He was pleased with himself for discovering something like a pun or two.

For two reasons it was policy for me to go back, or start back, with this man; first, I wanted him to talk more; second, if I should linger at the water, he might think my conduct strange.

Going up the hill, he asked me to take the lead. I did so, venturing the remark that these two new regiments made Branch's brigade a very big one.

"Yes," said he; "but I reckon they won't stay with us forever."

"Wonder where they came from," said I.

"Too hard for me," he replied; "especially the Twelfth; the Forty-fifth was at Goldsborough, but not in our brigade."

We reached the street of the Seventh. I stepped aside. "I stop here," said I.

"Well," said he, "I'm much obleeged to you for showin' me that branch—that branch that belongs to Branch's brigade," and he went his way.

And now I tried to take some rest. I thought it more prudent to stay at one of the camp-fires, fearing that if I concealed myself I should be stumbled upon and suspected, so I went up to one of the fires of the Twenty-eighth, wrapped my gum-blanket around me and lay down. But I found it impossible to sleep. The newness of the experience and the danger of the situation drove sleep as far from me as the east is from the west. I believe that in romances it is the proper thing to say that a man in trying situations sleeps the sleep of the infant; but this is not romance. I could not sleep.

Some time before day a man lying near my fire stretched himself and sat up. I watched him from the corner of my eye. I wanted no conversation with him; I was afraid he might question me too closely, and that my replies would not prove satisfactory to him. I kept quiet; I knew enough—too much to risk losing.

Suddenly he looked toward me. I was afraid that he had become aware of a foreign element thrown into his environment. My fears were confirmed. He opened his mouth and said, "Who—in—the—hell—that—is." The utterance was an assertion rather than an inquiry. I made no response. He continued to look at me—shook his head—nodded it—then fell back and went to sleep.

To make sure that he was fast, I waited awhile; then I rose and made my way back to a spot near the wagon train, far in the rear. It must have been after three o'clock. The teamsters had finished feeding their mules. Soon two of them began to hitch up their teams; then, with much shouting and rattling of harness, they moved off. I stole along beside the second wagon for some distance, and had almost decided to climb into it from behind when I thought that possibly some one was in it. There seemed little danger in going out behind the wagons, especially as there was no light of day as yet, although I expected that the cavalry pickets on the road would be looking straight at me, if I should pass them, and although, too, I fully understood that these wagons would be escorted by cavalry when on any dangerous part of the road to Richmond. But my plan was to abandon the wagon before we should see any cavalry.

When my wagon had reached the thickest of the woods, and about the spot, as nearly as I could judge, where I had joined the other wagons on the preceding night, I quietly slipped into the bushes on the left of the road.

The light was sufficient for me to distinguish large objects at twenty paces, but the woods were dense, and I knew that caution must be more than ever my guide; now that I had information of great value, it would not do to risk capture.

For some time I crept through the woods on my hands and knees, intently listening for the least sound which might convince me whether I was on the right track. A feverish fear possessed me that I was yet in rear of the Confederate pickets. The east was now clearly defined, so that my course was easy to choose—a northeasterly course, which I knew was very nearly the exact direction to the spot where I had left Jones.

At every yard of progress my fear subsided in proportion; every yard was increasing my distance from Branch's encampment, and rendering probability greater in my favour; I surely must be already in front of any possible picket-line.

The light increased, and the woods became less dense After going a hundred yards, I ceased to crawl. From behind one large tree I examined the ground ahead, and darted quickly to another. Soon I saw before me a fallen tree, and wondered if it might not conceal some vedette. Yet, if it did, the sentinel should be on my side of the tree. I stood for a few moments, intently searching it with my eyes. It was not more than fifteen yards from me, and directly in my course. At last, seeing nothing, I sprang quickly and was just about to lie down behind it, when a man rose from its other side. I did not lie down. He looked at me; I looked at him. He was unarmed. We were about eight feet apart. He began to recoil. There was light sufficient to enable me to tell from his dress that he was a rebel. Of course he would think me a Confederate. I stepped over the log.

"What are you doing here, sir?" I demanded, in a stern voice; "why are you not with your regiment?"

He said nothing to this. He was abashed. His eyes sought the ground.

"Why don't you answer me, sir?" I asked.

He replied timidly, "I am not doing any harm."

"What do you mean by being here at all?"

"I got lost in the woods last night," he said, "and went to sleep here, waiting for day."

"Then get back to your company at once," said I; "what is your regiment?"

"The Seventh," he replied.

"And your brigade?"

He looked up wonderingly at this, and I feared that I had made an unnecessary mistake through over-carefulness in trying to secure another corroboration of what I already knew well enough. I thought I could perceive his idea, and I added in an instant: "Don't you know that troops have come up in the night? What brigade is yours?"

"Branch's," he said.

"Then you will find your camp just in this direction," said I, pointing to the rear and left. He slunk away, seemingly well pleased to be quit at so cheap a cost.

Fearing that our voices had been heard by the pickets, I plunged through the bushes directly toward the east, and ran for a minute without pausing. Again the cold sweat was dropping from my face; again I had felt the mysterious mental agony attendant upon a too violent transition of personality. Perhaps it was this peculiar condition which pressed me to prolonged and unguarded energy. I went through thicket and brier patch, over logs and gullies, and when I paused I knew not where I was.

After some reflection I judged that I had pursued an easterly direction so far that Jones was now not to the northeast, but more to the north; I changed my course then, bending toward the north, and before sunrise reached the creek which, on the preceding night, I had crossed after leaving Jones. I did not know whether he was above me or below, so I crossed the stream at the place where I struck it, and went straight away from it through the swamp.

After going a long distance I began to fear that I was missing my course, and I did not know which way to turn. I whistled; there was no response.

No opening could be seen in any direction through the swamp. My present course had led me wrong; it would not do at all to go on; I should get farther and farther away from Jones. If I should assume any direction as the right one, I should be likely to have guessed wrong. I spent an hour working my way laboriously through the swamp, making wide and wider sweeps to reach some opening or some tree on higher ground. At last I saw open ground on my left. I went rapidly to it, and found a field, with a fence separating it from the woods,—the fence running east and west,—and saw, several hundred yards toward the west, the corner of the field at which I had stationed Jones.

At once I began to go rapidly down the hill toward the place. As I came near, I saw both horses prick their ears. Jones was sitting on the ground, with his gun in his lap, alert toward the west; I was in his rear. Suddenly he, too, saw the movement of the horses; he sprang quickly to a tree, from behind which I could now see the muzzle of his gun ten paces off. I whistled. The gun dropped, and Jones advanced, frightened.

"I came in an ace of it," he said, in a loud whisper; "why didn't you signal sooner?"

"To tell you the truth, I did not think of it in time, Jones; I am glad to see you so watchful."

"I should never have recognized you in that plight," said he; "what have you done with your other clothes?"

"Had to throw them away."

"Well! I certainly had no notion of seeing you come back as you are—and from that direction."

This was the first time I had seen myself as a Confederate standing with a Union soldier. In the night, mixed with the rebels, I had felt no visible contrast with them. Since I had left the wagon I had had no time for thought of personal appearance. Now I looked at myself. My hands were scratched with briers; my hat was torn; a great hole was over one knee, which I had used most in crawling. I was muddy to my knees, having been more rapid than cautious in crossing the creek. For more than twenty-four hours my mind had been on too great a strain to think of the body. By the side of me, Jones looked like a glittering general questioning an uncouth rebel prisoner. He smiled, but I did not.

"Now, let us mount and ride," said I; "we can eat as we go. The horses have had an all night's rest, and I can notify you that I need one, but it won't do to stay here. I know all that we need to know."

* * * * *

We decided that we should return to Old Church by the route which we had followed in coming. As we rode, I described to Jones the position and force of the enemy, so that, if I should be taken and he left, he could report to General Morell. We avoided the fields and roads, and stuck to the woods, keeping a sharp lookout ahead, but going rapidly. At the first water which we saw I took time to give my head a good souse.

Near the middle of the forenoon we came out upon the hills above Crump's Creek, and were about to descend when we heard a noise at our left, seemingly the galloping of horses. We dismounted, and I crept toward the road until I could see part of it winding over the hill. About twenty-five or thirty rebel cavalry—to be exact, they numbered just twenty-seven, as I counted—were on the road, going at a gallop up the hill, and apparently excited—running from danger, I thought. They disappeared over the hill. I thought it quite likely that some of our cavalry were advancing on the road, and that it would be well for me to wait where I was; if I should go back and call Jones to come, our men might pass while I was gone.

In a short time I saw in the road, going westward at a slow walk, another body of cavalry. These men, to my astonishment, were armed with lances. My surprise gave way to pleasure, for I remembered much talk in the army concerning a Pennsylvania regiment of lancers.

As I could see, also, that the men were in Federal uniform, I boldly left my place of concealment and walked out into the road. The cavalry halted. The captain, or officer in command, whom I shall here call Captain Lewis, although that was not his name, rode out a little to the front of his men, and said, "So you have given it up?"

"No, sir," said I; "to the contrary, I have made a success of it."

"Well, we shall see about that," he exclaimed; "here! get up behind one of my men. We want you."

For me to go with the cavalry and show them the plain road before their eyes, was ridiculous. As I hesitated, the captain cried out, "Here, Sergeant, take two men and carry this man to the rear!"

"Captain, please don't be so fast," said I; "one of my comrades is near by with our horses—" I was going to say more, but he interrupted me, crying, "We intend to pay our respects to all your comrades. No more from you, sir!"

As I showed no willingness to mount behind a man, the sergeant and detail marched me down the road. I endeavoured to talk to the sergeant, but he refused to hear me.

This affair had puzzled me, and it continued to puzzle me for a short while, but I soon saw what it meant, and saw why I had not understood from the first. My mind had been so fixed upon my direct duty that I had not once thought of my pretended character. For his part, the captain had supposed that I was a Confederate deserter coming into the Union lines. This was now simple enough, but why, under such circumstances, he had not questioned me in regard to what was in his front, I could not at all understand. I tried again to speak, but was commanded to be silent.

This was a ludicrous experience, though unpleasant. My only serious consideration was in regard to Jones. I feared that he would wait for me indefinitely, and would be captured. Although such a result could bring no blame to me, yet I was very anxious about him. Concerning myself, I knew that I could suffer restraint but a very short time; just so soon as I could get speech with any officer willing to listen, I should be set right.

The sergeant and his two men marched me back nearly to Hawes's shop, some two miles beyond Crump's Creek, where I was brought before Colonel Tyler, who was in command of two or three infantry regiments which had advanced from Old Church on that morning.

Colonel Tyler was the centre of a group of officers; the regiments were under arms. The sergeant in charge of me reported that I was a Confederate deserter, whom the Pennsylvania cavalry had found in the woods beyond Crump's Creek. Colonel Tyler nodded, and began to question me.

"When did you leave your regiment?"

"On the 22d, Colonel," I replied.

"That is a long time to lie out in the woods," said he; "now be sure that your memory is right. What day of the month is this?"

"The 24th, I think, sir."

"And it has taken you two days to come a few miles?"

"From what place, Colonel?"

"Why, from Hanover."

"No, sir; it has taken me but a few hours."

"What is your regiment?"

"The Eleventh Massachusetts, Colonel."

The colonel smiled. Then he looked angry. Then he composed his countenance.

"Have you any idea what is the matter with this man, Sergeant?"

The sergeant shook his head. "I don't know anything about it, Colonel. I only know that we took the man as I have said. He tried to talk to Captain Lewis, but the captain thought it best to send him back at once."

"You insist on belonging to the—what regiment did you say?"

"The Eleventh Massachusetts, sir," said I, unable to restrain a smile.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I was brought here much against my will, Colonel."

"But what were you doing when you were captured?"

"I have not been captured, Colonel; when I came to meet the lancers, I was returning from a scout."

"What brigade do you belong to?"

"General Grover's."

"What division?"

"General Hooker's."

"Where is your regiment now?"

"Near Bottom's Bridge, Colonel," I said; then added, "it was there on the 21st; where it is now I cannot say."

The colonel saw that I was a very remarkable Confederate deserter; he was beginning to believe my story; his tone altered.

"But why are you in Confederate uniform?"

"Colonel," said I, "I have been sent out by order, and I was just returning when our cavalry met me. I tried to explain, but they would not listen to me. The officer threatened me and would not let me speak."

The colonel looked puzzled. "Have you anything to prove that you are a Union soldier?"

"No, sir," said I, "not a thing. It would be dangerous for me to carry anything of that kind, sir. All I ask is to be sent to General Morell."

"Where is General Morell?"

"On the reserve line near New Bridge."

"Why send you to General Morell?"

"Because I must make my report to him."

"Did he send you out?"

"Yes, sir."

"How is it that you are attached to General Grover and also to General Morell?"

"Well, Colonel, that is something I do not like to talk about, but it is perfectly straight. If you will send me under guard to General Morell, the whole matter will be cleared up to your satisfaction. I beg you to do so at once. I know that General Morell will consider my report important, and will be disappointed if it should be delayed, sir."

"Not yet," said he; "but I will send him a description of your person. I shall want you here in case General Morell does not claim you and justify your claims."

"But if General Morell does not justify me, I am a rebel, and what would you do with me?"

"If you are a rebel, you are a deserter or a spy, and you say you are not a deserter; if you are either, General Morell does not need you."

"Colonel," said I, "would not a rebel spy be an idiot to come voluntarily into the Union lines dressed as I am dressed?"

"One cannot be too careful," said he. "You claim to be a Union man, but you cannot prove it."

"Then, Colonel, since you refuse to send me back to General Morell, I beg that you at once send back for my companion."

"What companion?"

"His name is Jones. He was chosen by General Morell to accompany me. He is near the spot where I met the lancers. He has both of our horses, and I fear he will wait too long for me, and be captured."

"By the lancers?"

"No, sir, by the rebels. He has on his own Federal uniform."

"But why did you not tell me this before?"

"Because I wanted you first to consent to send me to General Morell; you refuse, and I now tell you about Jones. He can justify me to you; but time is lost in getting to General Morell, sir."

Colonel Tyler wrote something and handed it to the sergeant, who at once went off, accompanied by his two men.

"What force of the enemy is in our front?" asked the colonel.

"My report is to be made to General Morell, Colonel."

"But if I order you to report to me?"

"Do you recognize me as a Union soldier, Colonel?"

"What has that got to do with it?"

"You would hardly have the right to command a rebel spy to betray his cause," said I.

"But you may be a rebel deserter," said he, smiling.

"If I were a rebel deserter, why should I not claim to be one, after having reached safety?"

"But you may have intended to go home, or you may have been lost, and if so you are properly a prisoner of war."

"How should a lost rebel know what I know about the composition of the Union army?"

"I know your case seems pretty strong; but why not give me the benefit of your knowledge? Some of my men are now almost in the presence of the enemy."

"General Morell advised me to report only to him, unless our advanced troops should be in any danger."

"Then I tell you that we are in danger. We contemplate attacking a small force, but we don't want to run our heads into a hornet's nest."

"Well, Colonel, since you put it so, I will answer you."

"What force is in our front?"

"There are six or seven regiments of infantry and a battery. There are cavalry, also; several hundred, I presume."

"And where are they?"

"The cavalry?"

"The whole force of which you speak."

"They were at Hanover Court-House all last night, and until day this morning, I cannot say that they have not moved since."

"Do you know who commands them?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who is it?"

"General Branch."

"Did you see him?"

"No, sir."

"How then do you know that he is in command?"

"I see that I misunderstood your question, Colonel. I do not know that General Branch is present with his brigade, but I do know that the troops at Hanover compose Branch's brigade."

"How did you learn it? A man told you?"

"Three different men, of different regiments, told me."

"Well, that ought to be accepted," said he.

I was allowed to remain at my ease near the circle of officers. It was easy to see that Colonel Tyler was almost convinced that I was telling the truth.

In about an hour the sergeant returned without the two men, and accompanied by Jones, who was leading my horse, and who at once handed the colonel a paper. I was immediately released, and in little more than two hours reached the camp of General Morell, and made my report.

* * * * *

General Morell expressed gratification at my quick return with valuable results. He told me that General Hooker's command had not moved, and that he would gladly send a statement of my work to General Grover, and would say that I would be found with Dr. Khayme until actually ordered back to the left. He then told me to go back to my quarters and rest; that I must get all the rest I could, and as quickly as possible.

* * * * *

Although the day was quite warm, I put my gum-blanket over me, to shield my gray clothes from the gaze of the curious. I was soon at Dr. Khayme's tent. Without thinking, I entered at once, throwing off the hot blanket. Lydia sprang up from a camp-stool, and raised her hands; in an instant she sat again, trembling. She was very white.

"I did not know you," she said; "yet I ought to have known you: Father prepared me; but we did not expect you before to-morrow, at the earliest." She was still all a-tremble.

"I am sorry that I startled you so; but I was so eager to hide from all eyes that I did not think of anything else. Where is the Doctor?"

"He had a case to attend to somewhere—I don't know where it is; he said he should be back to supper."

Lydia was getting ready to leave the tent. "I suppose you have had hard work," said she, "and I shall leave you, yet I so wish to know what success you have had."

"Then stay, and I will tell you about it," said I.

"Only tell me whether you succeeded," she said.

"Yes, I succeeded. I went into the rebel camp and remained all night with a brigade of them. I know all that I was sent to learn."

"Oh, Father will be so glad!" she said; "now I will let you rest till he comes, although I should like to hear all about it."

"But you will not hinder me by remaining," I exclaimed; "to be plain with you, I had to throw away my uniform, and you see me with all the clothes I've got."

She laughed; then, hanging her head a little, she said, "You need rest, though, and I'll see if I cannot help you while you get some sleep."

When she had gone I lay down and closed my eyes, but sleep would not come. After a time I heard voices, and then I saw a black hand open the tent door and lay a package on the ground. I got up, and saw my name on the package, which proved to contain a new uniform. I dressed and went out. The Doctor's negro servant was cooking supper. I asked him who gave him the package he had put into the tent. He said, "Miss Liddy she done sont me wid a note to de ginnle en' de ginnle he gimme anudda' note en' dat man he gimme de bunnle."

The Doctor came while the table was being spread. I gave a detailed account of my work, his little eyes twinkling with interest as I talked, and Lydia saying not a word.

When I had ended, I said, "And I have to thank Miss Lydia for her interest in a ragged rebel; she had the forethought, while I was trying to sleep, to make a requisition in my behalf; see my new uniform, Doctor?"

"I'll give her a kiss for showing her good sense," said her father.

Lydia smiled. "You looked so forlorn—or so tattered and torn—that I pitied you; I wrote a note to General Morell, not knowing what else to do."

"Did he reply?" I asked, thinking wildly, at the time, of the conclusion of the celebrated romance called "The House that Jack Built."

"Yes," said she; "you may keep the uniform, and I'll keep the note. I am thinking that I'll become a collector of autographs."

"Why didn't you let that Confederate, whom you found behind the log, come with you?" asked the Doctor; "do you not think that he was trying to desert?"

"I thought so, Doctor," said I; "but I feared to be encumbered with him. Speed was what I wanted just then."

"I suppose you were right," said he; "if he wants to come, he can come."

"I don't think such a man should have been trusted at all," said Lydia; "if he would betray his own people, why should he not betray us?"

"Let us not condemn him unjustly; possibly he was telling the simple truth," said the Doctor.

"In that case," said I, "I should have caught a Tartar if I had accepted his company."

"One more thing," said the Doctor; "in talking to Captain Lewis,"—the Doctor did not say Lewis, but called the officer by his name,—"in talking to Captain Blank, why did you not raise your voice loud enough for Jones to hear you? That would have relieved you at once."

"That is true, Doctor; but I did not understand the situation at all. Yes, if I had known what he was driving at, a call to Jones would have settled matters."

"I doubt it," said Lydia; "the captain might have thought you were Roderick Dhu."

"That man must be somewhat idiotic," said the Doctor; "in fact, all those lancers are what we mildly term unfortunates. I suspect that the captain had begun to realize the impotency of his command in front of Enfield rifles. I fancy that he was frightened, and that he blustered to hide his scare."

It was getting late. Lydia retired to her own apartment. The Doctor had smoked and smoked; his pipe had gone out, and he did not fill it again. He rose. "You can get sleep now, my boy; you have done a good day's work, or rather a good night's work sandwiched between two days. General Morell ought to reward you."

"I do not want any reward," said I.

"You would not like a commission?" he asked.

"I don't know what good it would do me," said I.

"It would do you no harm," he said; "it would be an advantage to you in many ways. You would fare better; your service might not be really lighter, but you would command more respect from others. That captain of the lancers will not think of apologizing to you; but if he knew you as Lieutenant Berwick, he would be quick to write you a note. If promotion is offered you,—and it ought to be offered,—you ought not to refuse it."

"Doctor," said I, "I am not ambitious—at least, in that way."



XVIII

THE BATTLE OF HANOVER

"The enemy's in view, draw up your powers. Here is the guess of their true strength and forces By diligent discovery; but your haste Is now urged on you."—SHAKESPEARE.

On the night of the 25th I was again sent for by General Morell.

"Berwick," said he, "I trust you are able to do some more hard work. Have you had a good rest?"

I was unwilling to say that I had not; yet the fact was that I had suffered greatly, and had not regained condition.

"One good turn deserves another," said he, laughing; "so you must help me out again; but don't doubt for a moment that your turn will come, too, some day."

"Well, General," said I, "what's in the wind this time?"

"Sit here," said he, "while I get the map. Your report has been fully corroborated. General Branch's brigade or division, of some six to ten regiments and a battery, is at Hanover Court-House, or was there last night, and is supposed to be there now. A division of this army will march against Branch. Now I will show you what you must do for us. Here," pointing on the map to a road running south, along the railroad from Hanover Court-House, "here you see the road you were on with the wagons. At this point—a mile and a half or two miles southeast of Hanover—is the road running down the river—the road you followed after crossing Crump's Creek. The force which will march against Branch will be sufficient to crush him, and we must prevent him from escaping in the direction of Richmond. Therefore, our attack is arranged to fall on his right. Now don't make a mistake and be thinking of our right—his right—here. If we can get around his right, we can drive him into the Pamunkey River. If we should attack on his left, we should simply drive him toward Richmond."