"Yes, sir; I see," said I.

"Now, it is quite possible that he has taken a new position and nearer Richmond. It is even possible that he has advanced a considerable distance nearer Richmond; but it is not likely, as he has been put where he is for the purpose of observing our right and rear until he is reenforced. On the 23d, we occupied Mechanicsville, and our possession of that place may have so interfered with or so threatened Branch's plans that he will make some movement. The truth is, to be frank with you, he is in a false position, and ought to return to Hanover Junction at once and unite there with Anderson's force, which has begun its march from Fredericksburg to Richmond, or else he ought to join Johnston's army without delay. I am telling you these things because I want you to understand the situation thoroughly, in order to help you, and because I think I can trust you."

"Well, General?"

"Knowing our plans, you will be better able to decide what to do in a critical moment."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, what we want to know is the true point upon which our attack should be directed. If we march straight on Hanover Court-House, and find that the rebels have left that place and have moved further south, we shall be attacking their left instead of their right, and they can retreat toward Richmond. In case they have moved south, we must not march on the Court-House; we must attack their right, wherever that may be. Now, that is what you must do for us: find out where Branch's right flank rests before we make the attack."

"Then I must precede your march by no great distance."

"Exactly."

"When do you march, General?"

"We march on the 27th, day after to-morrow, at daylight. You will have to-night and to-morrow and until the middle of the next day."

"I can see one thing, General."

"What is that?"

"When I find the enemy's right, I must hang to it for fear of its moving after I report."

"Very well; hang to it."

"And I must have help, so that I can send reports to you while I do hang to it."

"As much help as you want."

"Have you another man as good as Jones?"

"There is no better man than Jones; you want only two?"

"I think Jones and another will do, if the other man can be thoroughly depended upon."

"You can have as many men as you want, as many horses as you want, and anything else that you want—speak out."

"Why don't you have a company of cavalry to do this work for you, General?"

"A company of cavalry! They wouldn't get within a mile of Branch!"

"Simply because they would be too many," said I; "all I want is Jones and another man as good as Jones; if no such man can be found, I want only Jones."

"What would be your plans?"

"I should report by the third man the first information of importance; then report by Jones when we find Branch's right; hang to it myself, and report if it moves. You will need to know where Branch's right is at the moment when you are ready to strike—not where it was an hour before."

"Right," said he; "you shall have Jones the second if he can be found."

"We must not risk a common man, General; better do without such a man. He might get himself caught and endanger your whole plan."

"I think we can find a good man. Now, before we leave this, I must tell you that Colonel Warren's brigade will join in the movement. Warren is now at Old Church; he will march by the road that you were on yesterday, while we march upon roads at his left. You understand?"

"Yes, General."

"Then that is all."

"May I say a word, General?"

"Yes; certainly."

"I trust Colonel Warren's movement will be delayed. He has a shorter distance to make. If the rebels get wind of his movement before they know of yours, they will almost be sure to change position."

"That has been thought of," said he; "and Warren is instructed not to attack until everything is ready. However, I shall speak to General Porter again about this."

"Can I see Jones, General?"

"Yes; I can send him to you. When do you start?"

"To-morrow morning, sir."

"At what hour?"

"After breakfast."

"Can you think of nothing else you need?"

"I should like to have a good field-glass, General."

"Nothing else?"

"Some tobacco—chewing tobacco; I should not trouble you about that, but I know that Dr. Khayme has none."

"What do you want with the tobacco?" he asked, laughing.

"A man asked me for some, night before last," said I, "and I could not help him."

"And you want to find him and give it to him?" he asked, yet laughing.

"Oh, no, sir; but I thought I might find another occasion for it."

"Well, I'll send it through Jones."

"Let it be common plug tobacco, if you please."

"Just as you wish. Now, here is your glass. It is one of my own, or rather it was mine; it is yours hereafter."

"Thank you, General; I think it will be of great use. Is there anything about it to betray me?"

"No; it is English, and has no private mark. You are sure you have thought of everything?"

"I think so, General; if anything important occurs to my mind before we start, I'll let you know."

"Be sure to do it."

Jones came about eight o'clock. He told me that he and a man named Frank were ordered to go with me. Frank, as well as Jones, I learned, was chosen from the escort of General Porter. I told Jones what we should need, and he promised to be ready.

In Dr. Khayme's tent there was not much talk that night. Lydia sat silent and seemingly depressed. The Doctor said that our left wing had crossed the Chickahominy. Nobody responded. Then he tried to start an argument about the loss of spiritual power caused by war, but meeting no encouragement from me, gave it up. The truth is that I needed rest and sleep. When the Doctor had had his first smoke, Lydia rose and took his pipe from him. "We must tell Mr. Berwick good night, Father. He has work to do to-morrow."

The Doctor laughed; but he rose at once, protesting that Lydia was right. Lydia did not laugh.

Sleep came to me soon, and the next morning I felt greatly refreshed. While at breakfast, which the Doctor alone joined in with me, Jones and Frank rode up. I hastened to end the meal, and we soon were off.

* * * * *

I had made up my mind that if possible we should strike across the Virginia Central, some miles south of Hanover Court-House, and work our way toward the Confederate right and rear.

We crossed the Totopotomoy Creek near Pole Green Church, far above the place where Jones and I had crossed it on the 23rd, and then took to the woods up the creek swamp, the head of which, I had ascertained from the map, was at the west of the railroad. We were now on neutral ground. The usual order of our advance was Jones in the lead, I following him at not more than forty yards, and Frank coming behind me at more than twice that distance. Jones was directed to halt and ride back every time that he should see anything suspicious. Only once, however, did he have occasion to observe this order. It was when we were approaching the Totopotomoy; we were in a considerable thicket and had closed up in order to keep each his leader in sight; Jones was ahead of me about fifteen steps. I saw him suddenly pull up his horse sharp; then he waved his hand at me and came riding back. At his first motion I had pulled up. When Jones had reached me, he said, "There is smoke in front."

I beckoned to Frank to come on. We conferred. Jones had heard no noise, but had seen a thin line of smoke rising through the trees, which, he said, were larger and less dense just ahead. Jones was directed to dismount and to approach the smoke until he could learn what caused it. He returned very soon, and said there was a house in a small field just before us, and that a wide road ran in front of the house. We made a detour and passed on.

About six in the afternoon we reached a road running north, the road, as I supposed, from Richmond to Hanover. We were now about halfway between Hanover Court-House and the railroad bridge across the Chickahominy, and still in the Totopotomoy swamp, or that of one of its branches. We crossed the road, selecting a place where there were two sudden bends, and looking well both ways before venturing. After crossing, I directed Jones to take his stand near the lower bend, and Frank to watch the road from the upper bend, while I threw sand on the tracks our horses had made in crossing the road. We were now within less than a mile of the Virginia Central railroad.

I directed Frank to keep watch on the Hanover road, and went with Jones toward the railroad, and stationed him near it, or rather as far from it as he could be and yet see it. Then I returned to Frank and took his place, directing him to find Jones and then occupy a position as nearly as possible halfway between Jones and me. Frank's duties were to connect me with Jones and to care for the three horses, which were brought together in the centre lest they should be heard. We were now in position to observe any movement by rail or by road between Richmond and Hanover Court-House, and I decided to remain here for the most of the night.

From my position I could hear trains moving, in my rear, but for half the night Jones reported nothing. He could understand, of course, that I could hear the trains. Rain had set in at nightfall.

About an hour after midnight I heard troops marching north up the road. I crept up nearer, and, although it was dark and raining, I could make out that they were cavalry—perhaps as many as a company. I concluded that the rebels were to the north of us, that is to say, that if they had moved at all, they were yet between us and Hanover Court-House.

After the cavalry had passed, I thought the situation very much more definite. I went to Frank, and directed him to call in Jones. The three of us then made north, through the woods, leading our horses. We had a hard time. The woods were wet, the branches of the trees struck our faces. There was hardly enough light to see the trunks of the trees. At last we reached an opening through which I feared to advance.

We could see no light from camp-fires in any direction. The rebels were yet far to the north, but their cavalry patrols might be anywhere—might be upon us at any moment.

Giving Frank my bridle, I crept up to the road, and was glad to find that the woods on the east side of it extended on toward the north. I returned to my comrades and together we crossed the road and continued north in the woods on the east side for perhaps half a mile. It was now nearly day, and still raining. In the wet woods on this dark night there was little fear of encountering any enemy; their cavalry pickets would be in the roads.

I believed that Hanover Court-House was less than five miles from us, and that if Branch's camp had been moved southward, we ought soon to see the light of his camp-fires.

Again there was an open field, with a descending slope ahead of us. I directed Jones to mount and follow me, while Frank should halt, with his horse and mine to guard, at the top of the hill. I went forward on foot, Jones riding some ten paces in my rear. At the bottom of the hill I found a small stream. Bidding Jones return to Frank and bring him and all the horses up to the branch, I went up the next hill, still in the open. At the top of the hill I found a straggling thicket of small pines, not more than a hundred feet in width; from the far side of this thicket I saw more open ground before me. I went back, hoping to find my comrades at the branch. As I went down the hill I heard them coming down the opposite slope. They seemed to be making a great noise. One of the horses struck fire with his shoe against a stone. I was greatly alarmed, and decided at once to occupy the thicket of pines until daylight.

The horses were tied, and Frank was left to guard them and keep them from making a noise. Jones was directed to scout to the left as far as the road, and to return and examine the ground to our right for a few hundred yards; while he was engaged in this work I went forward nearly half a mile, going first over open ground, then through a thick but narrow skirt of woods, and coming out upon a hill from which I could see through the rain a dim light which I supposed was caused by camp-fires. A train of cars rumbled at my left, at a considerable distance—perhaps more than a mile away.

Returning to the horses I found Jones, who reported that the road was only some two hundred and fifty yards at our left, with woods on the other side of it, and that on our right there was nothing but a wood which extended to a swamp.

Frank and Jones were told to snatch what sleep they could; they rolled themselves in their gum-blankets and lay under a thick pine bush. The rain was pouring down.

At the first sign of day I woke the men. We silently made our way across the road, leading the horses; I knew that the rain would soon, wash out all our tracks. I now believed that Branch had moved southward some miles, increasing his distance from the Pamunkey.

We took a hasty and disagreeable meal; then we divided our forces again. Jones was near the railroad, I near the road, and Frank in the centre. We moved northward, stopping every hundred yards or so, to be certain that our communications were intact. Jones was so near the railroad that I began to think the train of cars I had heard running had not been on the Central, but farther away on the Fredericksburg railroad, which in this place runs almost parallel with the Central and some miles to the westward. In the close wet atmosphere the sounds must have come from a greater distance than I had first thought. This reflection made me suspect that there were no trains running on the Central railroad,—for we should have heard them, and Jones would have seen them,—and I decided to get on the west side of it and endeavour to make my way toward the rear of the enemy's camp.

It was not yet the hour of sunrise when we got across the railroad. We still hugged the woods, going north, with the railroad at our right at distances varying from one hundred to three hundred yards. We ascended a low hill, from which there might have been a good lookout but for the rain. I used General Morell's glass, but could not make out anything in front.

Suddenly we heard the beating of drums, seemingly not more than half a mile to the north of us. I thought that the enemy's pickets must be very near to us.

Again I dismounted and crept forward alone, bidding both men keep a close watch in all directions, and be in constant readiness to bring me my horse at a moment's warning, for I knew the possibility of detection and pursuit. Descending a low hill, I found at the bottom of it a small brook flowing northeastward, and changed my course at once to suit the stream. I went slowly and cautiously on through weeds and bushes, sometimes wading down the stream itself, the water being already very muddy from the rains, and at last, while bending to right and left and up and down seeking vision ahead through the thicket, I saw before me an infantry vedette a very short distance in front. He was facing south, and I know from his position, seeing that he was on the west side of the railroad, that Branch's division or brigade had moved from Hanover Court-House, or else that here was another body of men who had taken position on his right.

Retracing my steps as rapidly as possible, I returned to the hill, and directed Frank to ride with all consistent speed to General Morell or General Porter, who would no doubt be met advancing on the road, and report that the enemy had taken such a position that in order to reach his right flank it would be necessary for the Union troops to cross to the west side of the Central railroad some miles south of Hanover Court-House. I directed him to report also my doubt as to whether Branch had really moved or had been reenforced, and to say that I should endeavour at once to resolve this doubt, and to report again through Jones.

Frank rode away on his mission. It was about seven o'clock.

I put on the gray uniform. A lump came into my throat when I saw that all the rents had been mended, but I had no time to give to sentiment.

My glass was slung over my shoulder beneath the gum-blanket, with which I had been covered all night as a protection from the rain. I took nothing else with me except my canteen. I directed Jones to remain where he was, and if I should not return in one hour, to conclude that I was entangled with the enemy, and that I could not get away in time; that he must assume from my absence that the rebel right extended far, because if it did not I should return to him; in one hour, therefore, he must start to meet our advancing troops; in that case he was not to encumber himself with my horse; I might be able to get back to the spot later in the day. I added that I seriously doubted my ability to get back before the advance of the Union troops should reach the ground, and impressed upon Jones the necessity of communicating with General Morell before dispositions for attack had gone too far. He comprehended the situation, and promised to follow my instructions.

Again I crept up to the spot from which I had seen the vedette; he was yet there, still facing south. His line, therefore, stretched across the branch. I retired a hundred yards or more to a gully which favoured me, and crept to my left up the hill. At the top of the hill I entered thicker woods. I stood behind a tree, and looked and listened. Drums could be heard toward the north, and seemingly nearer than before; I thought I could hear the long roll, and feared that the Union advance was already known by the Confederates.

Now I got on my hands and knees, and began to crawl forward very slowly. My gum-blanket hindered me; I took it off, put my glass in it, folded and strapped it, and put it over my shoulder. I was already wet. Again I went forward slowly. Soon I saw another vedette, facing south. I retired, and made progress rapidly through the woods to my left; then I crawled up a long distance. I had hoped to be able to determine the right of the enemy's pickets and then return to Jones and send him with my report, while I should remain at the rendezvous to guide the troops when Jones should have succeeded in guiding them to me. But I had found the pickets posted in a very advantageous position for themselves, and a very difficult one for me; more than an hour had passed since I left Jones; he was already on his way. It took long for me to make a prudent approach. As soon as I could see one of the vedettes, I would retreat through the woods until I was out of danger; then I would go fifty or a hundred yards to my left, and approach, again on my hands and knees until I discovered a man, when I would retreat again, and so on alternately. At one place I saw the picket-line itself stretching across the top of an open hill, with the vedettes concealed, no doubt, in the hollow in front. I was compelled to go almost entirely around a field, taking a back track for a quarter of a mile, and then going forward again on the west side of the field.

About ten o'clock the rain ceased, and while I was thus helped in one respect, I was hindered also. The pickets would be more alert, and I felt compelled to keep at a greater distance from the line. I made another advance, and this time continued advancing, for to my gratification I found no extension of the picket-line in front of me. I thought at first that it had been thrown back here, and that I was now going along the western front.

To make sure, I turned to the right—to the east—and went perhaps three hundred yards without finding anything, and felt convinced that there was no western front to the rebel line. I continued to advance eastward, going straight toward the railroad. At length I had gone a quarter of a mile, and had found nothing.

Now I began to believe that the rebel picket-line had been withdrawn while I was going around the field, and I conjectured that the Confederates had become aware of the approach of our column, and had retreated, or else were concentrating to meet our advancing troops.

Suddenly I heard a cannon fire, seemingly a mile away, in a southeasterly direction.

For a clear understanding of the situation it would perhaps be well to state here that both Frank and Jones had reached the cavalry under General Emory, at the head of our column, and had reported to him as well as to General Morell; and that our column had advanced by the road we had left, had thrown out a skirmish-line which extended beyond the railroad, but not far enough, and had continued to advance until the enemy were felt.

The cannon which I had heard, and which continued to fire, were of Benson's battery of U.S. artillery, and this was the beginning of the battle of Hanover Court-House, so called.

At this time one of Branch's regiments—the Twenty-eighth North Carolina under Colonel Lane—was at Taliaferro's Mill at the head of Crump's Creek, on a road to the right of our advancing column, which had thus interposed, without knowing it, between the two bodies of Confederates. At the first warning of the Union advance, General Branch had formed his troops facing the east and southeast, and covering the Ashcake road, which runs in a sort of semicircle from the Hanover road to Ashland on the west, so that the attack of the Union forces against the main body of rebels merely forced them to give ground in the direction of Ashland. Lane, at Taliaferro's Mill, was left to work his way out, which he did later in the afternoon with considerable loss.

Now, when the fight opened, the most of Branch's brigade—having moved somewhat forward—had placed itself between me and our troops. I soon became aware of this fact by seeing straggling Confederate soldiers in the woods in several directions; some of them seemed to be wounded.

Half a mile or so to the eastward the battle was loud. By this time it was a little after noon; the sun was hot. The sounds of battle were advancing toward the north. Straggling men went by me, giving me no attention whatever. I kept my position—not remaining still, however, but walking about in the woods in order to prevent the possibility of being suspected of trying to hide—and awaited the issue.

Soon the straggling had ceased, and the battle died away, and I began to fear that the Confederates had had the best of it.

An hour or so passed; then a new battle broke out in a southeasterly direction. This was caused by Branch's endeavouring to throw a force in the rear of the Union troops, who had pushed on nearly to Hanover Court-House in pursuit of Lane's regiment, leaving Branch on their left flank and in position to do great damage[2]. Branch attacked vigorously, but was eventually forced back. Again men began to rush by me, and this time some of them were in actual flight. There were many wounded; gradually the woods were scattered over with a regiment or two, the troops showing various degrees of disorganization, some of the companies holding together and retiring slowly, while men, single and in groups, were making their way, as rapidly as they could run, from the field, yet all in the same direction, as though they had some knowledge of a rallying-place.

[2] On this day Lane's regiment saved the remainder of Branch's brigade. The main body of Porter's column pursued Lane toward the Pamunkey, no doubt thinking that all the rebel force was retreating northward. Lane was entirely routed, and was cut off from Branch for some days; the story of his retreat and return to Branch is very interesting. [ED.]

Seeing this confusion of many men, my fear increased, and I decided quickly—whether right or wrong—that it would not do for me to remain an idle and unarmed spectator of the retreat; and I thought, too, that it would be very hazardous to attempt to get out of this mass of men by going in a northerly or southerly direction, either of which would be taking them in line, if they could be said to have a line. I saw, of course, that if I should simply stop—it would have been easy to play the wounded Confederate—the Union troops would soon pick me up; but I wanted to see where the defeated rebels would rally. A man, slightly wounded, I suppose, threw down his gun near me, and kept on. I picked up the gun—an Enfield rifle—and joined the fugitives. Unaccountably to me, the disorder of the troops became greater, and a good many of the stragglers disburdened themselves of whatever they could throw away. I soon secured a cartridge-box, and a haversack, and with my own canteen—the like of which there were many in the hands of the rebels—I became, for the time, a complete Confederate soldier.

No immediate cause for the disorder of the rebels could be seen. The Union troops were not in sight. I expected the brigade to soon make a stand, but the retreat continued; sometimes I caught the contagion and ran along with running men, although I was sure that organised bodies were now covering our rear. I had no distinct purpose except to determine the new line.

After some little time I began to wish that I was well out of the scramble, but I saw no way out of it. Officers were riding about and trying to make the men get into some sort of formation. Evening was near, but I saw that before darkness should cover me the brigade would be formed again and would make a new stand, or else retreat in better order in the night.

I now gave up all hope of ever returning to find my horse, but felt confident that Jones would recover him.

As I had anticipated, the retreat became less disorderly, and at last ceased altogether. The officers succeeded in forming a line across a road running to the westward, which I believed, from my knowledge of the map, to be the Ashcake road. When I reached this forming line I hesitated. I thought at first that I ought to make no pretence of joining it; that prudence commanded me to keep far from it. Then the thought came to me that these disorganized battalions ware forming in any shape they could now take—men belonging to different companies, and even to different regiments, being side by side; so I got into line with them.

I smiled when I remembered that Dr. Khayme had once said that a spy might find it his duty to desert to the enemy.

The men seemed to have lost none of the proper pride of the soldier, but they were very bitter against some general or other unknown to me, and equally so to them, as it appeared; he had allowed them to be defeated when they could easily have been reenforced. From the talk which I heard I drew the inference that there was a large force of Confederates within supporting distance, and this new knowledge or suspicion interested me so greatly that I determined to remain longer with these troops—perhaps even until the next day.

It was now dark. There had never been any pursuit, so far as I could see. Soon the troops were put in motion westward, on the road to Ashland. If we had a skirmish-line on either flank, I did not see it; but we had for rear-guard the Seventh North Carolina, still unbroken, under the command, as I learned, of Colonel Campbell. It would have been very easy for me to step out of ranks at any time, either to the right or to the left, into the woods—or into open ground for that matter—and get away, but such was not now my intention.

The retreat continued slowly, the mixed men endeavouring while on the march to find their respective regiments and companies. Mounted men—officers probably—rode up and down the column crying out: "Flag of Thirty-seventh is forward," "Flag of Forty-fifth is behind you," and so on, thus telling the men where to find their commands. It was really good work, I thought. A little before midnight—or it may have been much earlier, for I was well-nigh worn out—a halt was made at the crossroads which I afterward knew to be the crossing of the Ashcake and Richmond roads about a mile and a half southeast of Ashland. Here all the men could easily find their commands, and I knew that perfect organization would be effected in a very few minutes. Before the line was completely formed, I walked off and was at once alone in the darkness.

By the stars I was able to strike a course; I went nearly east for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and lay down under a tree, first spreading my gum-blanket on the wet ground. My weariness amounted almost to exhaustion. I was hungry, too, and began to explore my predecessor's haversack, but fell asleep while thinking of food, and slept soundly the remainder of the night.

At daylight I was awake. I ate some bacon and hoecake which I found in the haversack; while doing this, I took a good look at my gun and accoutrements. The rifle was a long Enfield with three bands; the cartridge-box and cap-box were slung to a single waist-belt, the scabbard for the bayonet also, but there was no bayonet. The brass plate on the lid of the cartridge-box was a U.S. plate; the belt-buckle also was Federal; both plate and buckle had been turned upside down, so that each bore the inverted letters S U. There were a few cartridges in the box—such cartridges as I had not seen before. I found that the rifle was not loaded, and I allowed it to remain empty.

After I had eaten, I crept nearer the crossroads. The rebels had gone. I examined the road and found that all the tracks in the mud were pointing toward Ashland. I followed on, keeping for a time openly in the road, for I was as good a Confederate as need be unless I should be overtaken by any of our own men. I considered now that this force of the enemy was likely to establish connection at once with the main Confederate lines near Richmond, if indeed it had not already done so, and that if I should turn southward I should be in danger of being forced into the ranks and questioned, so I decided to go north of Ashland, and determine if possible the left of the line, which would be, I judged, the extreme left of the whole Confederate army.

In approaching Ashland I had no trouble; when I came in sight of the village I began to make a detour to the north, and about an hour after sunrise placed myself in observation between the Fredericksburg railroad and the Richmond road, which here run parallel due north and about half a mile apart. I was facing south.

About nine o'clock in the morning I was surprised to see to the rear of my left the Richmond road full of troops marching southward. I crawled up as near to the road as I dared, and watched them. There seemed to be but one regiment, which was a large one. Three or four officers rode at the head of the regiment; one, who I supposed was the colonel, was a large, heavy-built man who sat his horse proudly[3]. The men marched at the route step; the regiment was in fine order. In the centre were two flags: one an ordinary Confederate battle-flag; the other an immense blue banner, emblazoned with the silver palmetto tree. I could not tell the number of the regiment, although by this time I had my glass fixed on the flag. The Carolinians passed on south and, I supposed, entered Ashland.

[3] Doubtless Colonel Hamilton, who on this day marched south from Hanover Junction with his regiment, the First South Carolina. [Ed.]

I still kept my place, observing the roads narrowly. I remained in this position the rest of the 28th, but saw no other movement. At nightfall I crept up nearer to the village and found a comfortable resting-place in an old haystack, east of the place.

The next morning I was slowly advancing toward the railroad, with the purpose of ascertaining whether Ashland was still occupied by the rebels, when I heard noises behind me, and, turning, I saw three Union soldiers on horseback coming toward me. They saw me at the same time. One of them shouted to me to surrender, and I threw up my hands. They belonged to Company D of the Fifth U.S. cavalry. I easily succeeded in proving to the lieutenant in command, who soon rode up at the head of the company, and whose name I learned was Watkins, that I was a Union scout. The sight of General Morell's glass had its effect.

I told the lieutenant that in my opinion there was no strong force in Ashland. We were at this time almost in sight of the town. The lieutenant mounted me behind a trooper; the company made a dash into the place; the rebels fled, leaving two of their pickets in our hands. In the village were some stragglers who also were made prisoners. We remained in Ashland for several hours, the cavalry securing much property. There were a good many horses taken, one of which the lieutenant willingly allowed me to use.

The enemy's infantry had retreated nearer Richmond, and, as all the country to the east of us was now in our hands, there was nothing to hinder my reaching General Morell's camp that night. The general told me that they had given me up for lost, and asked what had become of me after sending Jones back. I gave an account of my work, and he was pleased to say that he approved of what I had done. He told me that Jones had recovered the horse that I had abandoned.

As I approached Dr. Khayme's tent, the Doctor was just entering it; the tent was dark. I stood outside until he lighted a candle; then I called him by name. He rushed out and embraced me. In a few words I told him of my work, and why I had been away so long.

"I will write at once to General Grover," said he, "and to Lydia, too, who is at Porter's field hospital; we have many wounded from your battle."



XIX

THE ACCURSED NIGHT

"If ever I were traitor, My name be blotted from the book of life, And I from heaven banished!"—SHAKESPEARE.

The night of my return was the 29th of May, 1862. I was very tired, although I had had a good rest the night before, and alternations of walking and riding in the day. Our supper was soon despatched, and the Doctor got his pipe.

"Now, Jones, pull off that distinguished disguise and put on your own dress; there it is in the corner, just as your namesake brought it."

"No, Doctor," said I; "let's save labour by not doing it; I can content myself till bedtime as I am."

"How long have you had it on?"

"Almost two days."

"Don't you begin to feel like a Confederate?"

"Not just at this moment, Doctor."

"So you have been with North Carolinians and with Georgians again?"

"Yes, and very nearly with South Carolinians."

"You mean the regiment with the blue flag?"

"Yes; I wish I could have learned its number."

"It was the First, very likely," said he.

This seemed a most astonishing statement, although I had many times before had evidences of peculiar knowledge possessed by Dr. Khayme. I thought it was the time to ask him, directly, how it was that he obtained information unobtainable by ordinary mortals.

"Why should you think so, Doctor?"

"Because of more than one circumstance. Before communications with our Southern friends became so infrequent I kept up with Charleston. I know that the First South Carolina regiment was on Sullivan's Island early in 1861, some months before the bombardment of Fort Sumter, and I remember reading in the Mercury that the ladies of Charleston had presented the First with a very heavy blue silk banner—a State flag with the silver palmetto and crescent."

"Then it may be the First regiment, Doctor; I saw the palmetto and the crescent."

"More than that," he continued; "the First South Carolina is one of the regiments which were lately under Anderson near Fredericksburg, and we know that Anderson's force has fallen back on Richmond. It must have passed through Ashland very recently."

"I wonder if there are any men in that regiment whom we used to know," said I, musingly.

"Very likely; there are companies in it from Charleston."

"Wouldn't it have been strange if I had gone with them, and somebody had recognized me?"

"Stranger things than that might happen to you; somebody might have recognized you—some old schoolmate, for example—and yet might have sworn that you are a Carolinian. Was it known to everybody at school that you were from the North?"

"I think it was, at first; but not in my last years there; of course, some of the boys knew it."

"Besides," said the Doctor, "there is more than one Northern man in the Confederate army—men who moved South before the war."

"Yes, I suppose so; but I cannot understand them."

"They have acquired homes, and think they must defend their homes; that is all, at least so far as concerns those of them who reason, and the others don't count."

"They might at least be neutral," I said.

"How could they think that being neutral would defend their homes?"

"And you think that the Southern people really believe their homes in danger?"

"No doubt of it—and they are right. Have you not already seen more than one Southern home destroyed?"

"Yes, here where the war is; but the average home in the South, far away from the armies."

"There will have been very few homes in the South far away from armies; to conquer the South you must overrun her territory."

"Doctor, you are gloomy to-night, and I confess that I am also. I wonder what's the matter with us."

"I don't admit being unusually gloomy," said the Doctor; "true, I have been seeing pain and wretchedness recently, and so have you. Our trades, however, ought to have accustomed us to such by this time, if ever."

"I don't think I should ever become accustomed to blood; I don't wish to," said I.

"You need never fight another battle," said he.

"How can I avoid battle?" I asked.

"Your services as a scout are worth more than forty cents a day; you ought not to fight at all."

"You think fighting more dangerous than scouting?"

"Fighting and scouting are more dangerous than scouting."

"But what can I do? If I am recalled by General Grover, I shall likely be required to do both."

"I think not. They want you to remain alive. Unless you join the Confederates again, as you did in the battle the other day, it is not very likely that you will serve any more in the ranks; of course, you can do so if you insist upon it."

"Insist on what? Joining the Confederates?"

"No; insist on fighting in the ranks."

"I should feel it my duty to go into battle with the Eleventh unless I had other work at the time."

"Do you think it your duty to give your best powers to your cause, or your poorest?"

"Can I not do both?"

"No—not at all; you should study your important calling, and make an art of it."

"I dread it; to believe that I must become a regular spy is a terrible thought to me."

"Why so?"

"Well, Doctor, you know that I am peculiar."

"You allude to your memory?"

"Yes."

"What effect does spying have upon you?"

"It seems to weaken me, body and mind. I was never so exhausted in my life as when I came back on the 24th."

"You had had a hard time, no doubt."

"But it was not merely a hard time; it was a peculiar time. I believe that for a short while I lost sight of the fact that I was a Union soldier."

"That only shows that you acted your part."

"The sudden changes are what I find so hard. To imagine myself a Confederate, and then in a moment to become a Federal, and in the next moment by effort become a rebel again, is revolutionary."

"Very likely."

"I'd prefer being in the ranks."

"Do you believe that your peculiar condition is what makes your sufferings?"

"I know it. The vivid result of my imagination is suddenly contrasted with as vivid a memory; before I quit being one man I become another, and I can see two of me at once."

"And that proves painful?"

"It is torture. If I am to imagine myself a Confederate in order to succeed, why, I prefer the ranks."

"You have struck upon a truth not generally appreciated, Jones; the relation of the imagination and the memory is almost unity. But for your recollecting your life in the South, and your consequent real and practical sympathy with the people of the South, you could not become, in imagination, a Confederate. Imagination depends largely on memory. The extraordinary vividness of your memory produces a corresponding vividness in imagining. You see how valuable are your peculiar powers. I have no doubt that with a little data concerning some narrow section of the South, such as knowledge of family names and family history, you could join the Confederate army and play a most important role, giving to your generals information of contemplated movements as well as of movements, in actual progress."

"Doctor Khayme," said I, "never could I consent to such a life."

"I do not advise it," said he, without appearing to regard my emotion; "I doubt if it would be best for you. It would be more likely to confirm your intermittent states. What you need is to get rid entirely of any necessity for the exercise of either memory or imagination for a time. To cherish either is to cherish both. On the contrary, any great and long-continued interest, which would dissociate you from your past, would, in my judgment, prove the end of your peculiar states."

I did not reply. The Doctor remained silent for a long time. When he spoke again, he rose to retire. "Goodnight, my boy; and hope for the best. Whatever comes is right, as it fits into the total. Keep up your spirits. War has many startling opportunities as well as disasters."

* * * * *

In the afternoon of the 31st, sounds of a heavy battle were heard miles away to the southeast, and soon the rumour ran that the whole of McClellan's left wing was engaged. Fearing that my company was actually in battle, I begged Dr. Khayme to send a man to report for me to our adjutant; General Morell kindly added, at the Doctor's solicitation, a few words to General Grover.

This battle of Fair Oaks, or Seven Pines as the rebels call it, raged during all the afternoon of the 31st of May and part of June 1st, and did at one time threaten to call for the whole strength of McClellan's left; Grover's brigade, however, was still held in reserve, and did not become engaged. While the battle was in progress, intense but subdued excitement was shown by the men in General Morell's command, and by the other troops on the right. On the part of all, there was constant expectation of orders to march to the help of the Union forces on the further side of the Chickahominy, and when news of the final struggle came, in which our men had more than held their own, disappointment at not being chosen was as great, perhaps, as joy over success. All seemed to feel that they had been robbed of an opportunity.

* * * * *

On the evening of June 2d, the Doctor and I were sitting in his tent, he busily engaged in writing I know not what, when an order came from General Morell for me to report to him at once.

Being ushered into the general's tent, I found there two officers unknown to me. The one who most attracted my attention—though I was careful not to show any curiosity—was a man of nearly forty years, of medium height and muscular frame. His hair was dark; his mustache very slightly tinged with gray. His manner indicated an extremely nervous sense of responsibility, and the attitude of deference, which the others observed in his regard, was very noticeable. His face reminded me vaguely of some portrait—I knew not whose.

The other officer was a larger man, of about the same age, and of a more cheerful temper, if one could judge in a single opportunity. He seemed to be on a very familiar footing with the officer whom I have first mentioned.

General Morell did not present me to either of the two officers. In the middle of the tent was a camp-table, upon which a map was spread, and around which the three officers were sitting. General Morell allowed me to stand, cap in hand, while I listened to some words of a conversation which I supposed had been practically finished before I entered.

"I believe that you clearly understand what is needed," said the smaller officer.

"Perfectly," said General Morell.

The larger man contented himself with merely nodding.

"Then," said the first speaker, "it only remains to know certainly whether we have the means in hand."

The larger man now spoke: "The work can be done; if not in one way, then in another. A reconnaissance would effect with certainty our present purpose. Why risk possible failure with a single man?"

"We cannot be too prudent," replied the other; "we must not divulge our intentions. Lee would know at once the meaning of a reconnaissance."

"We might make more than one, and let him guess which is serious."

"No; the way to go about it is not by force. If General Morell has confidence in his means, let General Morell proceed in his own way."

"I have confidence," said General Morell; "but, of course, any plan might fail. The only thing in life that is certain is death. I should say that we have nine chances out of ten."

"Then do it your own way," said the small officer, rising; the others rose also. "I must tell you good night, gentlemen."

The three now left the tent, while I remained.

I had not been unobservant. No names had been spoken, nor any title given to the officers, and I suspected that very high titles had been suppressed. Exactly who these officers were, I could not know, but that they were in great authority was not to be doubted; I made a wild guess that one was General Porter and the smaller man some trusted staff-officer from army headquarters[4].

[4] Doubtless this officer was General McClellan himself. Mr. Berwick describes very well McClellan's person, which—from the poor cuts in the newspapers—had made an impression, yet a vague impression. It is not a matter for wonder that Mr. Berwick had never before been in the presence of the great general. [ED.]

General Morell returned alone. He motioned me to a seat at the table, then sat opposite me. For a time he seemed preoccupied. At length he looked me full in the face, and said gravely, "Berwick, it is absolutely necessary for us here on this flank to get accurate information of the enemy's strength, and as soon as possible."

"The whole line of the enemy?" I asked.

"No; the strength of his left—the position and forces of his left wing."

"A difficult undertaking, General," said I.

"Yes, but not too difficult, I think; and whether difficult or not, it must be done. Here is our map. It shows us nothing but the country, with the positions of a few batteries and pickets that can be plainly seen from our lines. We do not know how well fortified, or how many, are the troops opposed to us. We have information, but we fear that it is not reliable; in fact, it is contradictory in some of the most essential points. We do not know the length of the enemy's line; we suppose it rests on the James River above Richmond as well as below Richmond. That makes too long a line to be very strong in all its parts. Their left may be a mere skirmish-line; their extreme right may be only cavalry. Some parts of their line must be very thin, and it is suspected that their left is the thinnest part."

To this I said nothing, and the general continued: "The force under Anderson from Fredericksburg has reenforced the army now under Lee, and we are not sure what position it holds. The force under Jackson causes great apprehension. From several quarters we get rumours of an intention or supposed intention of Lee to march Jackson against our right. If there is such a purpose, we ought, by all means, to anticipate the movement. If we are ever to attack, it ought not to be after Jackson reenforces Lee."

While the general had been speaking, my mind was more fixed upon myself than upon what he was saying. The ideas he expressed were readily understood: their implications in regard to myself were equally clear; he wanted me to serve again as a getter of information. My stomach rose against my trade; I had become nauseated—I don't know a better word —with this spying business. The strain upon me had been too great; the 23d and 24th of May had brought to my mental nature transitions too sudden and entire to be wholesome; I felt that only a positive command to enter the rebel lines would justify me in doing myself such violence again; I had begun to fear for myself; I certainly should not volunteer.

"Now, Berwick," said the general; "I believe that you are the man for our business. Do you feel free to undertake it for us?"

"Please tell me what you have in mind, General," I said, more with the view of softening a predetermined refusal than with any intention of heeding his wishes.

"We want accurate information of the enemy's strength on his left," said he; "look at this map—here is our position, nearly on our extreme right; we want you to find out what is opposite our right and what force extends beyond our front. The enemy's line curves or else has a salient somewhere beyond this point; his line turns somewhere and extends in some form to the James River. Find that salient or curve; ascertain its strength and the strength of their left, or western face."

"And I need not go into their lines to do that?" I asked, somewhat hopefully, but only a moment hopefully, for I saw how impossible would be my suggestion.

"I am afraid you will find it necessary to go into the enemy's lines," said the general.

It was now on my lips to ask General Morell whether I had choice in the matter, that is, whether I might decline the honour offered me; but I was checked by the thought that it would be impossible to explain my reluctance; and without an explanation of my peculiarity I should suffer the loss of his respect—something I did not wish to forfeit.

"No," he repeated, "you must get within their lines at night; remain a day with them, two if necessary, and come out at night. The distance is not great. A few miles to go and come, and a few miles within their lines."

Oh, yes! to him it was easy for me to do this. And I have no doubt that he honestly believed the reputed charm of such adventures fascinated me as well as others. But if that man on that accursed night of June had seen what was going on in me, he would have been far from choosing Jones Berwick as the man to send upon an enterprise that demanded a fixed purpose and an undisturbed mind; rather would he have ordered Dr. Khayme to see to it that I had perfect repose and gentle care lest worst should follow worse.

But how could I tell him? If I should desire to tell him, how could I presume upon his good-nature?—the good-nature of a general of a division, whose office was high and whose time was invaluable, and who, as I knew well, tolerated my presence for a few moments only, in order that he might accomplish a purpose.

I must decline or accept without explaining.

"You seem to hesitate, Berwick," said the general; "what is wrong?"

Brought thus face to face with decision, I could hesitate no longer; "I should like to confer with Dr. Khayme, General," I said.

He looked surprised. "What has Dr. Khayme to do with this?" he asked; then, in a milder tone, he said, "I have no objection, however; Dr. Khayme will help rather than hinder."

"The Doctor is my best friend," I said; "and he is much wiser than I am; if I should undertake the duty you outline, he would, as you say, General, help rather than hinder; he can be a very great help."

"We have little time to spare, Berwick. How long do you want with Dr. Khayme?"

"Did you expect me to begin work to-night, General?"

"Yes; you ought to be within their lines by daylight."

"And what is the time now?"

"Ten o'clock."

"Can you wait my answer an hour?"

"What do you mean by your answer?" he said.

The question and the tone were not to my taste. If I was being treated as a party to a possible agreement, well and good; if not—if the general was merely commanding me to obey him, well and good—I would obey without further delay or hesitation.

I rose and saluted. "General," I said, "if you order me to go into the enemy's lines, I shall go. If you are asking me to go into the enemy's lines, I inquire, in my turn, whether you can wait my answer an hour."

"Sit down, Berwick," said the general.

I obeyed. It was not strange that he should wish no unpleasantness. Though scouts are under orders just as other men are, it is not hard to understand that generals feel it necessary to be somewhat delicate in their treatment of such peculiar servants. I suppose that, in the mind of a general, there always exists some fear that his spies will not prove as diligent and self-sacrificing as they could be. I had not, in my treatment of General Morell, intentionally played upon this fear: such a course would have been contemptible; yet I could see at once the effect of my speech, and I endeavoured to set myself right in his mind.

"Perhaps, General," said I; "perhaps I have presumed too much upon the apparent nature of our former relations; if so, I beg to apologize. Give me a plain, direct order and I will try to obey it, and without mental reservation."

"But, Berwick, my good fellow, you know as well as I do that any order to a scout can only be of the most general nature; and you know, too, that an unwilling scout is no scout at all."

"Then, to be plain with you, General, I should greatly prefer that you send some other man on this expedition."

"Berwick," said he, "you are the best man available for this present work."

"Then order me to go, General."

"No," said he; "I'll humour you. Go to Dr. Khayme and return in one hour if possible—and no hard feelings," he added, giving me his hand.

As I went toward the Doctor's tent, my intense distaste for the work offered me seemed to lessen. Perhaps the night air had some effect on me; perhaps the general's parting words had soothed me; perhaps the mystery attaching to the council of war, so to speak, had exaggerated my fears at first, and now calmness had set in; at any rate, before I had reached the Doctor I was beginning to sympathize with General Morell, whose responsibility was so great, and whose evident desire to conciliate had touched me, and was wishing that I could have served him. Then, too, the question came to me what would General Morell do in case my refusal was final? And I had little doubt that the correct reply was: He will command me. And, in that ease, our relationship would be weakened unnecessarily; better go willingly than seem to go sullenly. Yet, with all this, I had resolved that if any escape from this frightful duty should be presented, if any possible substitute could occur to the general's mind, or if, by any means, the bitter extreme of mental suffering, and even—I admitted it to myself—of mental danger, could be avoided, I should not consent to serve.

To speak of this subject to Dr. Khayme would give me no embarrassment; I was sure of his full sympathy; but I was hampered by a doubt as to how much I should tell him of the necessity which prompted the demand for my work. The three generals had spoken of important matters before me, or at least hinted at them, and General Morell had been still more communicative. I made up my mind to say nothing of these matters to the Doctor.

When I reached the tent I found my old master yet busy at his writing. As I entered he looked up at me, and immediately rose from his seat.

"You have been tried," said he; "lie down and rest."

He sat by me and felt my pulse. Then he said, "You will do; it is only a momentary unsteadiness."

Yet, if ever I saw alarm in any one's eyes, that feeling was then in Dr. Khayme's.

I had said nothing; I now started to speak, but the Doctor placed a finger on my lips, saying, "Not yet; I'll do the talking for both of us."

He rose and brought me water, and I drank.

Then he sat by me again, and said, "The fight which one must make with his will against impulse is not easy, especially with some natures; and a single defeat makes the fight harder. To yield once is to become weaker, and to make it easy to yield,"

I understood. He could read me. He knew my weakness. How he knew I could not know; nor did I care. He was a profound soul; he knew the mind if ever yet mere man knew mind; he could read what was going on in the mind by the language of the features and the body. Especially did he know me. But possibly his knowledge was only general; he might infer, from apparent symptoms, that some mental trouble was now pressing hard upon me, and, without knowing the special nature of the trouble, might be prescribing the exercise of the will as a general remedy. Yet it mattered nothing to me, at the moment, I thought, how he knew.

"You will not yield," said he.

I closed my eyes, and thought of Lydia, and of my father, and of Willis, and of Jones, and of nothing connectedly.

"Do you remember," he asked, "the first time you came with me to the little cottage in Charleston?"

I nodded.

"At that time you were passing a crisis. I would not tell you to will. Do you remember it?"

Again I nodded assent.

"To will at another's dictation is impossible. The will is free. If I should tell you to will any certain thing, it would do no good. All that I can do is to say that the will is free."

His finger was yet on my lips. My mind had taken in all that he said, although my thought was giddy. He was clearly right. If I should surrender once, it would be hard to recover my former ground. Yet I doubted my power to will. The doubt brought terror. I wished that he would speak again.

"The power of habit is not lost in a moment. It may be unobserved, or dormant even, but it is not destroyed. No man accustomed to keep himself in subjection can fail to distinguish temptation from surrender."

How well he could read me!

"The desire to will may momentarily fail through bodily weakness, or through fear—which is the same thing. But he who can will when he desires to will not, conquers himself doubly."

I put his hand away and rose.

"What time is it, Doctor?" I asked.

"Half-past ten," said he, without looking at his watch.

"I must report to General Morell at eleven," I said.

"We must not waste time, then," he said; "who accompanies you?"

"I go alone."

He looked at me searchingly, then grasped my hand. He understood.

"You have strengthened your will; good. Now I will strengthen your body."

He went to a small chest, from which he took a flask. He poured a spoonful of liquid into a glass. I drank.

"It will be slow and last long," said he.

He brought me the gray clothing and helped me to dress; he turned the pockets of my blue clothes and selected such things as I needed.

"Do you go armed?" he asked.

"Yes; apparently. I shall take the Enfield—unloaded."

He brought the cartridge-box and the canteen; he brought the haversack, and put food in it.

Said he, "I wish you would humour one of my whims."

"Anything you wish, Doctor."

"Put the palmetto buttons on your coat."

It was soon done. I was passive; he was doing the work.

"Now," he said, "one other thing. Take this pencil, and this book. Turn to May 23d. I will dictate."

It was a small blank-book, a little soiled, with the pages divided into sections, which were headed with dates for the year 1862.

"Turn to May 23d," he had said.

"I have it," said I.

"Read the date," said he.

"FRIDAY, May 23, 1862."

"Now write."

The Doctor dictated; I wrote:—

"Arrived after furlough. Drilled A.M. and P.M. Weather clear."

* * * * *

"SATURDAY, May 24, 1862. "On camp guard. Letters from home. Showers. Marched at night."

* * * * *

"SUNDAY, May 25, 1862. "Marched all day. Bivouacked in woods at night."

* * * * *

"MONDAY, May 26, 1862. "Marched but a few miles. Day very hot. Weather bad. Heavy rain at night."

* * * * *

"TUESDAY, May 27, 1862. "Rain. Heard a battle ahead. Marched past—"

"What brigade was that you saw at Hanover Court-House?" the Doctor asked.

"Branch's."

"Yes, Branch's; write, 'Marched past Branch's brigade, that had been fighting.'"

Then the Doctor said: "Now turn to the fly-leaf of the book and write"—he paused a moment—"simply write Jones. Here—turn the book lengthwise, and write Jones."

I wrote Jones—lengthwise the book.

"Wait," said he; "put a capital B."

I put a capital B after Jones.

"Let me see," said he.

I showed him the book.

"No," said he; "erase that B and put another one before Jones."

"Have you an eraser?"

"I'll get one."

The B after Jones was erased, leaving a dark splotch. I wrote B. before Jones.

"We must get that dark spot out," said he.

He took the book and very carefully tore out part of the leaf, so that there remained only B. Jones and the part of the fly-leaf above the writing.

"Now," said he, "put that in your pocket."

"What is all this for, Doctor?"

"For a purpose. Keep it in your pocket; it may serve to protect you."

"What time is it, Doctor?"

"Ten minutes to eleven."

"I must go."

He said no word; but he put up his hands to my face, and made me bend to him, and kissed me.

* * * * *

Before midnight one of General Morell's orderlies had passed me through our cavalry pickets beyond Mechanicsville.

The Doctor's stimulant, or something else, gave me strength, My mind was clear and my will firm. True, I felt indifferent to life; but the lesson which the Doctor had given me I had clearly understood, and I had voluntarily turned the die for duty after it had been cast for ease. All my hesitation had gone, leaving in its place disgust kept down by effort, but kept down. I wanted nothing in life. Nothing? Yes, nothing; I had desire, but knew it unattainable, and renounced its object. I would not hope for a happiness that might bring ruin on another.

To die in the work begun this night seemed to me appropriate; life at the present rate was worse than worthless. Yet I had not yielded to this feeling even; I would be prudent and would accomplish what was hoped for, if my strength should serve.

In General Morell's tent I had been offered a lieutenant's commission,—a blank fully signed and ready to fill, but had rejected it, through vanity perhaps—the vanity that told me to first perform a duty for which the honour had been soothingly offered.

My plans—I had no plans. I had started.

What was the weather when I started that night? I do not know. I was making for the swamp; I would go to the swamp; I would look for an opportunity—that was all.

The swamp was soon around me. I filed right. I found mire and bush, and many obstacles. The obstacles stirred my reason. To follow every crook of this winding stream was absurd. I came out of the swamp and began to skirt its edge. I looked toward my right—the northeast; the sky reflected a dim glow from many dying camp-fires. I could see how the low swamp's edge bent in and out, and how I could make a straighter course than the river. In some places a path was found. Our pickets were supposed to be on the edge of the hills behind me.

My course was northwestward. I crossed two roads which ran at right angles to my course and probably entered Richmond. On each of them successively I advanced until I could see a bridge, upon which I knew it would not be safe to venture, for it was no doubt held by the Confederates. I continued up the stream, approaching it at times to see if it had narrowed.

About two miles, I supposed, from our cavalry vedettes, I crossed a railroad. On the other side I turned southward. The ground was covered with dense undergrowth and immense trees, and was soft and slippery from recent high water. My progress was soon interrupted by a stream, flowing sluggishly to my left. I sought a crossing. The stream was not deep, but the slippery banks gave me great difficulty in the darkness. The water came to my waist; on the further side were hollows filled with standing water left by the freshet. I had crossed the main branch of the Chickahominy.

Within a mile I expected to find Brook Run, behind which it was supposed the Confederate left extended, and where I must exercise the greatest care lest I run foul of some vedette. How to avoid stumbling on one of them in the darkness, was a problem. Very likely they were placed from a hundred to two hundred yards apart, and near the bank of the stream, if practicable, especially at night, for the stream itself would not only be their protection, but also, by its difficulty and its splashing, would betray any force which should attempt to cross to the south side.

But I found the creek very crooked, and I considered that a line of vedettes, two hundred yards apart by the course of the stream, would require probably a man to every fifty yards in a direct line, and such a line of vedettes could not well be maintained constantly—never is maintained, I think, unless an enemy's approach is momentarily feared, in which case you frequently have no vedettes at all. Following up this thought I concluded that the vedettes were, most likely, watching their front from the inner bends of the stream, and that, at a bend which had its convex side toward the north, was my opportunity.

I was not long in finding such a bend. And now my caution became very great, and my advance very slow. The bank sloped, but was almost completely hidden in the darkness. I could not see the edge of the water.

Lying flat, I thrust the butt of my gun ahead of me, and moved it up and down and right and left, trying the inequalities of the ground. To make no sound required the very greatest care; a slip of an inch might have caused a loud splash.

Slowly I gained ground until I reached the water, and stood in it to my knees. I listened—not a sound. I slowly moved forward, raising my foot not an inch from the muddy bottom, straining eye and ear to note the slightest sign of danger. The water deepened to my middle.

I crawled up the further bank. Again I lent ear. Nothing. I crawled forward for fifty yards or more, hoping, rather than believing, that I was keeping halfway between the sides of the bend.

I rested a while, for such work is very hard. Before a minute had passed I heard a noise—and another: one at my right, the other at my left. The sounds were repeated. I knew what they meant—the vedette on either side of me was being relieved. My course had been right—I was midway between two sentinels.

How to get through the picket-line ahead of me? I reasoned that the pickets were not in the swamp, but on the edge of the hills. Lying there between the two vedettes I imagined a plan. I knew that a picket-line is relieved early in the day when troops are in position, as the armies were now. If I could see the relief coming, I would show myself just at the time it arrived, hoping that each party would take me to belong to the other.

But suppose I should not see the relieving company, or suppose any one of a thousand things should at the last moment make my plan impracticable, what then?

I saw that I must have some other plan to fall back on; I would make some other plan as I crawled forward.

At what moment should I strike the line of Confederate pickets? That the country outside was in their cavalry lines I well knew, and I hoped that for this reason their infantry would be less watchful; but this thought did not make me any the less prudent and slow in my advance. I had easily succeeded in passing the vedettes; to avoid the vedette reliefs might not be easy.

When I reached the edge of the swamp, daylight was just beginning to show. Could I hope to remain long between vedettes and pickets? Impossible. But impossible is a strong word, I thought. Why not climb? Trees were all around me; I might easily hide in the thick boughs of a cedar near by. But that would do me no good; at least, it could do no good unless in case of sudden necessity. I must get through the picket-line; outside I could do nothing. Once in rear of the Confederate pickets, I should have little or no trouble in remaining for days in the camps and in the main lines; getting through was the difficulty. Daylight was increasing.

Had it taken me two hours to crawl from the line of vedettes to this edge of the swamp? The question rose in my mind from seeing a relief come down the hill at my right; two men, supposably a non-commissioned officer and a private, were going to pass in fifty yards of me. I let them pass. They went into the swamp. Five minutes later two men returned by the same route, or almost so, but came a little nearer to me; I saw them coming and felt for my glass, but did not find it. I supposed that Dr. Khayme had forgotten to put it in my haversack. Yet the men—no doubt the same non-commissioned officer, with the private he had just relieved from duty as a vedette—passed so near me that I could distinctly see their dress, and could note its worn and bedraggled appearance. These men had seen hard service, evidently.

Five minutes more passed. The east was aglow with day. Two men at my left were now coming down the hill. They passed into the swamp. These men wore uniforms fresh and clean.

The thought came upon me at once that I had passed between two vedettes belonging to different regiments. I cast about for some way to take advantage of this circumstance, but racked my brains to no purpose. Finally, however, an odd idea was born. Could I not go back to the vedettes, and talk to either the right or the left man of the connecting line? He would probably think that I belonged to the command joining his. No doubt I could do this; but what should I gain? I should merely be losing time.

Then another idea came. Could I not post myself as a Confederate vedette between the connecting men? But for what? Even if I could do so there was no profit in this romantic idea. I gave it up.

Yet I must do something. I considered the chances of going forward boldly, walking straight between two pits, and on up the hill. The pickets would see that I was a Confederate. If I could strike between the connecting pits of the two commands, the thing might be done. Yet I wanted a better way.

Before the second relief had returned I was hidden in the boughs of a tree. The corporal and a man passed back as they had come. They were talking, but I could not hear what they said.

I watched them from the tree. A gully was in front of me, a large gully, only in parts visible from my position; it seemed to be on their route. The two men became hidden by this gully. I saw them no more. My interest was excited. Why had the men gone into this gully? There was smoother ground outside. They had a purpose; I must find it out.

Until the next relief should come I was comparatively safe. I was on neutral ground, or unobserved ground, for an hour at least. I could not know whether the reliefs came as ordinarily—once every two hours. There would probably be nobody passing between vedettes and pickets—unless, indeed, some officer should go the rounds of the sentinels; that was something I must risk.

I came down from the tree and cautiously approached the mouth of the gully. I climbed another tree, from which I had a better view. I could now see that the gully extended far up the hill, and I suspected that the picket-line stretched across it; but there was no indication of the purpose which had caused the men to go into the gully. My position was a good one, and I waited. I could see a part of the picket-line—that is, not the men, but the rifle-pits.

Ten minutes went by. Coming down the hill from the right in an oblique direction toward the gully, I saw an unarmed rebel. He disappeared. He had gone down into this gully, which, I was now confident, separated by its width the pickets of different commands. What could this unarmed man be doing in the gully? Nothing for me to do but to wait; I was hoping that an opportunity had been found.

Soon I saw another man coming down toward the gully; he was coming from the other side—the left; he was armed. At nearly the same instant the unarmed man reappeared; his back was toward me, he held his canteen in his hand. The situation was clear; there was water in the gully; my opportunity had come.

I came down from the tree. Almost an hour would be mine before the vedettes were relieved. Cautiously I made my way to the mouth of the gully. I lay flat and watched. A man was climbing the side of the gully; he was going to the left; he was armed—doubtless the man I had seen a moment before. I went into the gully. I must get to that spring or pool, or whatever it was, before another man should come.

Before the man had reached the picket-line, I was at the spring—and it was a good one, at least for that swamp. A little hollow had been made by digging with bayonets, perhaps, or with the hands, on one side of the gully, just where a huge bulk of unfallen earth would protect the hole from the midday sun, the only sun which could reach the bottom of this ravine, defended by its wall on either hand. The hole was so small that only one canteen could be filled at a time; but the water was good compared with that of the Chickahominy. Doubtless it was the difficulty of getting pure water that justified the relaxation of discipline which permitted the men to have recourse to this spring in rear of their vedette lines.

Canteen in hand, I sat down by the spring. Fully three minutes I sat and waited. Seeing how muddy I was, I took out my knife and began scraping the mud from my shoes and clothing.

I heard a step. I put my canteen into the water and held it down with one hand, continuing, to scrape mud with the other.

"Fill mine, too," said a voice.

I did not look up.

"Ain't this a swamp to read about? Did you ever see the likes o' mosquitoes?"

"I couldn't see 'em," said I; "supposing you mean whilst I was on vydette."

He laughed. "Bet you had to fight 'em, though. Say—you won't git that mud off that-away; let it dry."

I did not reply. He was standing almost over me, upon a sort of shelf in the side of the gully, as there was not room at the water for more than one man.

"Gimme your canteen," said I.

He handed it to me. It was a bright new tin canteen of the cheap Confederate make—uncovered. I knew at once that this man belonged to the fresh regiment. The old Confederates had supplied themselves, from battlefields and prisoners, and the greater capture of stores, with good Union canteens. Even while I was thinking this, he said, "What'll you take to boot 'twixt your canteen and mine?"

"Don't want to swap," said I.

I filled his canteen.

"Now, gimme your hand," said I.

He held out his hand, which I grasped, and he pulled hard; it took two pulls to bring me to his side. I did not look at him, but knew that he was a small man.

He turned away. I followed him. I could see that his uniform was new. We reached the edge of the gully, and stood still.

Now I could see the pits. The gully was deeper up the hill. There was a pit on either edge of the gully, which was about forty feet wide. Had I known of the existence of that gully, I could have stolen through the picket-line in the night—but perhaps they had it guarded at night.

"Say," said my companion, "why didn't you go back on your own side?"

"Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies," said I.

He was two steps ahead of me—a man of small stature. His shoes and his clothing up to his knees were almost as muddy as mine. He walked slowly up the hill. In a very few minutes we should be within the picket-line; it took all my will to preserve composure; I was glad the man was in front of me. We stepped slowly tip the hill.

I could see nobody at the pits. The pickets were lying down, probably, half of them asleep, the other half awake but at ease, I was wishing my leader would speak again. The nervous tension was hard. What should I do when we reached the line? I had no plan, except to walk on. I wished my leader would continue to march, and go past the pits—then I could follow him; the trivial suggestion aroused self-contempt; I was thinking of straws to catch at. I must strengthen my will.

He had made four steps; he said, "Sun's up."

This was not much of an opening. I managed to respond, "Don't see it, myself."

"Look at that big pine up yonder," said he.

"Be another hot day," said I; "wish I was up there."

"What for?"

"So I could get some sleep."

"You won't git any down here in this old field; that's shore."

"That's what's a-troublin' me," said I; "and I've got to take care of myself."

"Ben sick?"

"No, not down sick; but the hot sun don't do me any good."

"Bilious, I reckon," said he.

"No," said I, "not bilious; it's my head."

"Bet I'd go to the surgeon, then, ef it was me," he said.

"Wish I could see the Doctor," I replied, spelling the word, mentally, with a capital.

"Well, why don't you tell your captain to let you go back?"

"You don't know my captain," said I.

"Hard on you, is he?"

"Well, hard ain't the word; but I wouldn't risk asking him out here."

"Bet I'd go, anyhow, ef it was me," said he.

"If he should see me going, know what he'd do?"

"What?"

"Send a man after me."

"Well, you jest come along with, me. Bet our men won't stop you; you don't belong to them."

This was just what I wanted; but I was afraid to show any eagerness. We were almost at the picket-line, and I had no doubt that my friend was marching straight toward his own rifle-pit; he was surely on the left of his company—he was such a small man.

"Stop," said I.

He halted, and turned to me. He was a good-looking young fellow. He had the palmetto button on his coat. Our eyes met.

"You won't give me away?" I said.

"What do you take me for?" he asked.

"Oh, you're all right; but if you should happen to say anything to anybody, it might get out. If you won't tell any of your men, I'll go."

"Oh, come along; you needn't be afeared of my tellin' on you. I don't know your name, and—not to cause hard feelin's—I don't want to know it; come on."

He stopped at the pit on the edge of the gully. I passed on. I saw men lying, sitting, and a very few standing down the line at some of the other pits. I heard no talk. The men at the pit where my friend had halted did not speak to me. There was nothing to cause them to speak. He handed his canteen to one of the men; even this man did not speak; he drank.

I walked up the hill, going straight toward the big pine. The sun itself could now be seen. What I have narrated had not taken five minutes, for the pits were not more than a hundred yards from the edge of the swamp.

Now, once out of sight of the picket-line, I should feel safe. How far in the rear the Confederate fortifications were, I could not yet tell—but that mattered little; I should have no fears when I reached them.

As long as I thought it possible that I could be seen from the pits I went toward the big pine; soon I knew that I was hidden by bushes, and I went as rapidly as I could walk in a southeast direction for nearly an hour. I passed in full sight of the picket-line in many places, and fortifications far to my right could be seen upon the hills. My purpose was to enter the main Confederate entrenchments as nearly as possible opposite New Bridge—opposite the position from which, I had started on the night before.

The sun was an hour high. I had come three miles, I thought; I sat in a shady place and endeavoured to think what course was best. I believed I had come far enough. I had nothing to do but go forward. I could see parts of fortifications. No one would think of hindering my entrance. I would go into the lines; then I would turn to the right and follow out my instructions.

Again I started, and reached the brow of the hill; it was entirely bare of trees. Three or four hundred yards in front were lines of earthworks. I did not pause; I went straight ahead.

A body of men marched out of the breastworks—about a company, I thought. They were marching forward; their line of march would bring them near me. I held my course. I judged that the company was some regiment's picket for the next twenty-four hours; they were going to relieve the last night's pickets.

The last man of the company had hardly appeared: suddenly I heard a cannon roar, apparently from a Federal battery almost directly in my rear, and at the instant a shell had shrieked far above my head.

At once the Confederates replied. I did not think that I was in any danger, as the shells went high in the air in order to attain their object on the other side of the Chickahominy.

The company of infantry had countermarched, and was again behind the line of earthworks.

I looked around for shelter from the Federal cannon; although the shells went high, it would be folly for me to go forward into the place of danger. The hill was bare. There was no depression, no tree, no fence, nothing but the open wind-swept hill—desolate and bare. I was on this bare hill.

A man passed me from the rear. He was armed. He, too, like myself, had no doubt come from the picket-line.

"Better leg it!" he cried—and I legged it with him, making for the breastworks.

The shells from the rear seemed to fly over at a less height.

One of the shells burst over my head.

Suddenly I saw my companion throw up one hand—his left hand—with great violence, and fall flat; hardly was I conscious that I saw him fall; at the instant there was a deafening noise, and I was conscious of nothing.



XX

THE MASK OF IGNORANCE

"I am mainly ignorant What place this is; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not Where I did lodge last night."—SHAKESPEARE.

"Who is it?"

"Don't know."

My head pained me. I opened my eyes. The blue sky was over me now. A gently swaying motion lifted and lowered me.

"Hurt bad?"

"Head mashed."

"Anybody else?"

"One more, and he's gone!"

I could not see the speakers ... I tried to turn my head, but could not.

I turned my eyes to the right, then to my left; the motion of my eyes threatened to break something in my head.

I saw nothing but the trees, which seemed to move back slowly, and to become larger and smaller.

Great thirst consumed me. I tried to speak, but could not.

The swaying motion continued. The trees rose and fell and went by. The blue sky was over me. I did not stir.

How long this lasted I did not know. I was hardly conscious that I was conscious.

I heard a word now and then: "Look out there!" "Hold on!" "Wait a second!"

A moment before, I had walked out of the hotel among the pines ... these are not pines; they are oaks. A moment before, the night sky had been overcast with rain-clouds ... now the sky is blue over my head, and the sun is hot. My head whirs with pain and fear—fear of insanity. I have been hurt; I have been unconscious ... I cannot recollect what hurt me....

But no; there was no mental danger, for my senses were returning. I could feel that I was being borne, in a way unknown to me, by some unknown men. I could not see the men, but I could hear them step,—sometimes very clumsily, causing me renewed pain,—and I could hear them speak, and breathe heavily.

Now I thought I could see tents, and great fear came on me.

We passed between objects like tents, and went on; we were in a field, or some open space; I could see no trees. Then I heard, or thought I heard, a voice cry out strange syllables, "Hep! Hep! Hep!"—and again, "Hep! Hep! Hep!"

Well, well ... this is a dream; I'll soon wake up; but it is vivid while it lasts.

Yet the strange dream continued. How long had I been dreaming? I dreamed that the men came to a stop. They lowered me to the ground.

I looked at them. They were looking at me. Their faces were strange. They were dirty. They were clothed alike. I closed my eyes. I tried to think.

"There he goes again," said a voice.

I felt a hand on my wrist. I opened my eyes. I saw a face bending over me. The face rose. It was a good face. This man's head was bare. He had spectacles. He was not dirty.

"Bring him in," said the man with the good face.

I was lifted again. I was taken into a tent ... certainly a tent. There were low beds in the tent—pallets on the ground. There were forms on the beds.

The men laid me on a bed. They straightened my limbs. Then one of them raised me from behind, and another took off my coat, or I supposed so, though I did not clearly see. Then they went away.

I was thirsty. I tried to speak, but could not speak. The man with the spectacles came to me. He said: "I am going to dress your head. You are not hurt badly."

My head was paining me, then, because I had been hurt? Yes, that must be true. If this was a dream, this part of it was not unreasonable. The man went away.

But did I ever have such a nightmare before? I had supposed that people awoke before they were hurt.

The man came again. He brought a bowl of water and a spoon. He raised my head, and put a spoonful of water to my lips. I tried to open my mouth, but could not.

He called, "William!" A negro man came. The negro took my head in his hands. The man with the spectacles opened my mouth, and put water into it. I swallowed. Then he put the bowl to my lips and I drank. Both went away.

The man with the spectacles came again. I could see scissors in his hand. He turned me so that I lay on my side. He began to hurt me; I groaned.

"I won't be long about it," he said; "I am only cutting your hair a little, so that I can get at you."

Then I felt my head getting cold—wet, I thought; then I felt my head get warm; soon I was turned again, and lay on my back.

"Now," said the man, "I'll give you some more water if you'll promise to go to sleep."

I could not promise, though I wanted the water, and wanted to go to sleep so that this strange dream might be ended. Then I laughed inwardly at the thought of banishing dreams by sleeping.

The man brought a glass, and held it to my lips, and I drank. The water did not taste so good as the first draught did.

I closed my eyes; again the thought came that the dream would soon be over.

When I opened my eyes, I knew it was night. A lighted candle was near me. I was lying on my side. I had turned, or had been turned, while asleep. Near me was a man on a bed; beyond him was another man on another bed ... a great fear seized me; drops of cold sweat rolled down my face.... Where was I? What was I?

My head began to throb. I heard heavy breathing. I tried to remember how I had been brought to this place. It seemed like the place of ... had I dreamed? Yes, I had dreamed that I had drunk much water; my throat was parched.

A face bent over me. It was a man's face. I had seen it in my dream ... then I was not yet awake? I was still dreaming? Or, if I was awake, maybe I had not dreamed? Can this man and these men and this tent and this pain all be real? No; certainly not. When I awake I shall laugh at this dream; I shall write it out, because it is so complex and strange.

The man, said, "You feel better now, don't you?"

I tried to reply. I could not speak, though my lips moved. The man brought water, and I drank. He sat by me, and put his fingers on my wrist.

"You'll be all right in a day or two," he said. I hoped that his words would come true; then I wondered how, in, a dream, I could hope for a dream to end. He went away.

I tried hard to think, but the effort increased the pain in my head. I felt cramped, as though I had lain long in one posture. I tried to turn, but was able only to stretch my legs and arms.

The man came again. He looked at me; then, he knelt down and raised my head. I felt better. He pulled something behind me, and then went away, leaving me propped up.

Daylight was coming. The light of the candle contrasted but feebly against the new light. I could see the pallets. On each was a man. There were five. I counted,—one, two, three, four, five; five sick men. I wondered if they were dreaming also, and if they were all sick in the head ... no; no; such fantasy shows but more strongly that all this horrible thing is unreal.

I counted again,—one, two, three, four, five, six; how is that?

Oh, I see; I have counted myself, this time.

Myself? What part or lot have I with these others? Who are they? Who am I? I know nothing—nothing.

The man stood over me. I knew that he was a doctor. He said, "Are you easier?"

I could not reply. He went away.

I closed my eyes, and again tried to think; again the effort brought increased pain. I could hear a whirring noise in my ears. I tried to sleep. I tried to quit thinking.

When I opened my eyes, the sun was shining. One side of the tent was very bright.

A negro man came. I remembered that his name was William. He brought a basin of water and a towel and sponge. He sponged my face and hands, and dried them with the towel. Then he said, "Can you eat some breakfast?" I could not reply.

The men on the pallets—five—were awake. They said nothing. The doctor was kneeling by one of the pallets—the one next to me. The man on the pallet groaned. The doctor said something to him. I could not tell what the doctor said. The man groaned.

Another man, propped up on his pallet, was eating. I began to feel hungry.

William brought a cup of tea, with a piece of biscuit floating in it. He raised my head and put the cup to my lips. I drank. William went away.

The sun was making the tent very warm. Many sounds came from outside. What caused the sounds I did not know. I was near enough to the railroad to hear the cars, but I knew the sounds were not from cars. I could hear shouting, as if of wagoners.

All at once, I heard thunder—no; it could not be thunder; the sun was shining. Yet, it might be thunder; a storm might be coming.

I wished that I was back in the hotel. I was sick, and it would not do for me to get wet; this wagoner's tent was not the place for a sick man in a storm.

But ... was there a hotel? The hotel was a dream—this was the reality. I know nothing.

The doctor came. He looked at me, and smiled. I tried to smile in return, for I liked him. "That's right," he said.

The doctor knelt by the pallet next to mine—that of the man who had groaned. The man was not groaning now.

The doctor rose. I could see the sick mart's face—white. The doctor drew the sheet over the man's white face. The doctor went out of the tent. A cold sweat was on me.

Some men came in—four men. Each man took the pallet by a corner. They took the pallet out of the tent. They did not come back.

Again I heard thunder. The sun was still shining. The heat was great—great enough, I thought, to bring a storm even in October. I had never before known it so warm.

Why should so many wagoners be sick at once? And why should I be with them? I began to fear that I had been sick for a great many days; I thought that I had been unconscious.