Chapter I: Break My Musket (3)

"I was going to ask if they were Southern soldiers."

"You dunno who dey is, mahsa?"

Yes; Nick was sharp; I must be discreet now, and wary--more so. I knew that many Confederate officers had favourite slaves as camp servants, slaves whom they thought so attached to them as to be trustworthy. Who could know, after all, that there were no exceptions amongst slaves? My doubts became so keen that I should not have believed Nick on his oath. He might tell me a lie with the purpose of leading me into a rebel camp. I must get rid of him somehow.

"Mahsa," said Nick, "is you got any 'bacco?"

"No" said I; then, "yes, I have some smoking tobacco."

"Dat's mighty good hitse'f; won't you please, sa', gimme a little?"

I was not a smoker, but I knew that there was a little loose tobacco in one of my pockets; how it came to be there I did not know.

"Thankee; mahsa; dis 'bacoo makes me bleeve you is a--" Nick hesitated,

"A what?"

"A good man," said Nick.

"Nick," I said, "I want to go up the road."

"W'at fur you gwine up de road, mahsa?"

"I want to see some people up there."

Nick did not reply. Could he fear that I was wanting to take him into the Southern lines? It looked so.

The thought almost took away any fear I yet had that he might betray me. His hesitation was assuring.

I repeated, "I want to see--I mean I want to look at--some people up the road."

"Dem sojers went up the road des' now, mahsa."

"Do you think they will come back soon?"

"I dunno, mahsa; maybe dey will en' maybe dey won't."

"Didn't you come from up the road?"

"Mahsa, how come you ain't got no gun?"

This threatened to be a home-thrust; but I managed to parry it; and to give him as good.

"Do Southern officers carry guns?"

"You Southern officer, mahsa?"

"Southern officers carry swords and pistols," said I; "didn't you know that, Nick?"

"Mahsa," said Nick, very seriously.

"What is it, Nick?"

"Mahsa, fo' God you ain't no Southern officer."

"What makes you think so, Nick?"

"Caze, of you was a Southern officer you wouldn't be a-gwine on lak you is; you 'ud des' say, 'Nick, you dam black rascal, git back to dem breswucks on' to dat pick en' to dat spade dam quick, or I'll have you strung up;' dat's w'at you'd say."

Unless Nick was intentionally fooling me, he was not to be feared. He was willing for me to believe that he had run away from the Confederates.

"But suppose I don't care whether you get back or not; there are enough niggers working on the fortifications without you. I'd like to give you a job of a different sort," said I, temptingly.

"W'at dat job you talkin' 'bout, mahsa?"

"I want you to obey my orders for one day,"

"W'at I hatto do, mahsa?"

"Go up the road with me," said I.

Nick was silent; my demand did not please him; yet if he wanted to betray me to the rebels, now was his chance. I interpreted his silence to mean that he wanted to go down the road, that is to say, that he wanted, to make his way to the Union army and to freedom. I felt so sure of this that I should not have been surprised if he had suddenly set out running down the road; yet I supposed that he was still in doubt of my character and feared a pistol-shot from me. He was silent so long that I fully made up my mind that I could trust him a little.

"Nick," said I, "look at my clothes. I am neither a Southern officer nor a Northern officer. I know what you want: you want to go to Fortress Monroe. You shall not go unless you serve me first; if you serve me well, I will help you in return. Go with me for one day, and I'll make it worth your while."

"W'at you want me to go wid you fer? W'at I hatto do?"

"Guide me," said I; "show me the way to the breastworks; show me how to see the breastworks and not be seen myself."

"Den w'at you gwine do fer me?"

It amused me to see that Nick had dropped his "mahsa." Did he think it out of place, now that he knew I was not a Southern soldier?

"Nick, I will give you a dollar for your day's work; then I will give you a note to a friend of mine, and the note will bring you another dollar and a chance to make more."

Nick considered. The dollar was tempting; as to the note, the sequel showed that he did not regard it of any importance, finally, he said that if I would make it two dollars he would be my man, I felt in my pockets, and found about four dollars, I thought, and at once closed the bargain.

"Now; Nick," said I, "here is a dollar; go with me and be faithful, and I will give you another before dark to-morrow."

"I sho' do it," said Nick, heartily; "now w'at I hatto do?"

"Where is the first Confederate post?"

"You mean dem Southern sojers?"

"Yes."

"You mean dem dat's do fust a-gwine _up_ de road, or dem dat's fust a-comin' _down_ de road?"

"The nearest to us in this direction," said I, pointing.

"Dey is 'bout half a mile up dis road," said Nick.

"Did you see them?"

"I seed 'em fo' true, but dey didn't see me."

"How did you keep them from seeing you?"

"I tuck to do bushes; ef dey see me, dey string me up."

"How long ago was it since you saw them?"

"Sence sundown," said Nick,

"When did you leave the breastworks?"

"Las' night."

"And you have been a whole day and night getting here?"

"In de daytime I laid up," said Nick; "caze I dunno w'en I might strak up wid 'em."

"How far have you come in all?"

"'Bout 'leben or ten mile, I reckon. I laid up in de Jim Riber swamp all day."

"Did you have anything to eat?"

"Yassa; but I ain't got nothin' now no mo'."

"Do you know where we can get anything to eat to-morrow?"

"Dat I don't; how is we a-gwine to hole out widout sum'hm to eat?"

"We must risk it. I hope we shall not suffer."

"Dis country ain't got nothin' in it," said Nick; "de folks is almos' all done gone to Richmon' er summers[1] en' I don't know w'at we's a-gwine to do; I don't. I don't know w'at we's a-gwine to do fer sum'hm to eat. And I don't know w'at I's a-gwine to do fer 'bacco nudda."

[1] Somewhere [Ed.].

"Well, Nick, I can give you a little more tobacco; but I expect you to find something to eat; if you can find it, I will pay for it."

We were wasting time; I wanted to make a start.

"Now, Nick" said I; "I want to go to Young's Mill, or as near it as I can get without being seen."

"Dat all you want to do?" asked Nick.

"No; I want to do that first; then I want to see the breastworks. First, I want to go to Young's Mill."

"W'ich Young's Mill?" asked Nick; "dey is two of 'em."

"Two?"

"Yassa; one Young's Mill is by de chu'ch on de Worrick road; de yudda one is de ole Young's Mill fudda down on de creek."

"I want the one on the Warwick road," said I.

"Den dat's all right," said Nick; "all you got to do is to keep dis straight road."

"But we must not show ourselves," said I.

"Don't you fret about dat; I don't want nobody to see me nudda; des' you follow me."

Nick left the road, I following. We went northeast for half a mile, then northwest for a mile or more, and found ourselves in the road again.

"Now we's done got aroun' 'em," said Nick; "we's done got aroun' de fust ones; we's done got aroun' 'em; dis is twicet I's done got aroun' 'em, 'en w'en I come back I's got to git aroun' 'em agin."

"How far is it to Young's Mill, Nick?"

"I 'spec' hit's 'bout fo' mile," said Nick.

We were now within the rebel lines, and my capture might mean death. We went on, always keeping out of the road. Nick led the way at a rapid and long stride, and I had difficulty in keeping him in sight. The night was getting cold, but the walk heated me. Here and there were dense clumps of small trees; at the little watercourses there was larger growth. The roar of the sea was heard no longer. It must have been about midnight.

We came upon swampy ground; just beyond it a road crossed ours.

"Stop a little, Nick," said I.

Nick came to a halt, and we talked in low tones; we could see a hundred yards in every direction.

"Where does that road go?" I asked.

"Dat road," said Nick, pointing to the left; "hit goes to ole Young's Mill."

"How far is old Young's Mill?"

"I dunno ezackly; I reckon 'bout fo' mile."

"Where does the right-hand lead?"

"Hit goes to Mis Cheeseman's," said Nick; "en' at Mis Cheeseman's dey is calvry, on' at ole Young's Mill dey is calvry, but dey is on de yudda side o' de creek."

"How far is it to Mrs. Cheeseman's?"

"I dunno ezackly; I reckon 'bout fo' mile."

We went on. The ground was again swampy. We came to a road running almost west; a church stood on the other side of the road.

"Dat's Danby Chu'ch," said Nick, "en' dat road hit goes to Worrick."

"And where does the right-hand lead?"

"Hit goes to Mis Cheeseman's," said Nick.

"And where is Young's Mill?" I asked.

"Hit's right on dis same road we's on, en not fur off, nudda."

We had now almost reached my first objective. I knew that Nick was telling me the truth, in the main, for the plan of the map was still before my mind's eye.

"Can we get around Young's Mill without being seen?" I asked.

"Dey's a picket-line dis side," said Nick.

"How far this side?"

"'Bout a quauta' en' a ha'f a quata.'"

"How near can we get to the picket-line?"

"We kin git mos' up to 'em, caze dey's got de trees cut down."

"The trees cut down in their front?"

"Yassa; dey's got mos' all de trees out down, so dey is."

"And we can get to this edge of the felled timber?"

"Yassa; we kin git to de falled timba', but we's got to go roun' de pon'."

"And if we go around the pond first; we shall then find the picket-line?"

"De picket-line at Young's Mill?"

"Yes."

"Ef we gits roun' de pon', we'll be done got roun' de picket-line, en' de trees w'at dey cut down, en' Young's Mill, en' all."

"Well, then, Nick, lead the way around the pond, and keep your eyes wide open."

Nick went forward again, but more slowly for a while; then he turned to the right, through the woods. We went a long distance and crossed a creek on a fallen log. I found that this negro could see in the darkness a great deal better than I could; where I should have groped my way, had I been alone, he went boldly enough, putting his foot down flat as though he could see where he was stepping. Nick said that there were no soldiers in these woods and swamps; they were all on the road and at Young's Mill, now a mile at our left.

At length we reached the road again. By this time I was very tired; but, not wanting to confess it, I said to Nick that we should wait by the side of the road for a while, to see if any soldiers should pass. We sat in the bushes; soon Nick was on his back, asleep, and I was not sorry to see him go to sleep so quickly, for I felt sure that he would not have done so if he had meant to betray me.

I kept awake. Only once did I see anything alarming. A single horseman came down the road at a leisurely trot, and passed on, his sabre rattling by his side. When the sound of the horse's hoofs had died away, I aroused Nick, and we continued west up the road. At last Nick stopped.

"What's the matter now, Nick?" I whispered.

"We's mos' up on dem pickets ag'in," he said.

"Again? Have we gone wrong?"

"We ain't gone wrong--but we's mos' up on dem pickets ag'in," he repeated.

"Where are we?"

"We's gittin' mos' to Worrick; ef we gits up to de place, den w'at you gwine to do?"

"I want to stay there till daylight, so that I can see them and know how many they are."

"Den w'at you gwine to do?"

"Then I want to follow their line as near as I can, going toward Yorktown."

"Den all I got to say is dat hit's mighty cole to be a-layin' out in de woods widout no fiah en' widout no kiver en' widout noth'n' to eat."

"That's true, Nick; do you know of any place where we could get an hour or two of sleep without freezing?"

"Dat's des' w'at I was a-gwine to say; fo' God it was; ef dat's w'at you gwine to do; come on."

He led the way again, going to the left. We passed through woods, then a field, and came to a farmhouse,

"Hold on. Nick," said I; "it won't do to go up to that house."

"Dey ain't nobody dah," said Nick; "all done runned off to Richmon' er summers."

The fences were gone, and a general air of desolation marked the place.

Nick went into an outhouse--a stable with a loft--- and climbed up into the loft. I climbed up after him. There was a little loose hay in the loft; we speedily stretched ourselves. I made Nick promise to be awake before sunrise, for I feared the place would be visited by the rebels.

X

THE LINE OF THE WARWICK

"Thus are poor servitors,
While others sleep upon their quiet beds,
Constrained to watch in darkness, rain, and cold."
--Shakespeare.

When I lay down I was warm from walking, and went to sleep quickly. When I awoke I was cold; in fact, the cold woke me.

I crept to the door of the stable and looked out; at my left the sky was reddening. I aroused Nick, who might have slept on for hours had he been alone.

The sun would soon warm us; but what were we to do for food? Useless to search the house or kitchen or garden; everything was bare. I asked Nick if he could manage in any way to get something to eat. He could not; we must starve unless accident should throw food in our way.

A flock of wild geese, going north, passed high. "Dey'll go a long ways to-day," said Nick; "ain't got to stop to take on no wood nor no water."

We bent our way toward the Warwick road. At the point where we reached it, the ground was low and wet, but farther on we could see dryer ground. We crossed the road and went to the low hills. From a tree I could see the village of Warwick about a mile or so to the west, with the road, in places, running east. There seemed to be no movement going on. Nick was lying on the ground, moody and silent. I had no more tobacco.

I came down from the tree and told Nick to lead the way through the woods until we could get near the rebel pickets where their line crossed the road.

About nine o'clock we were lying in the bushes near the edge of felled timber, through an opening in which, ran the road at our left. At long intervals a man would pass across the road where it struck the picket-line.

Both from the map and from Nick's imperfect delivery of his topographical knowledge I was convinced that the main rebel line was behind the Warwick River, and that here was nothing but an outpost; and I was considering whether it would not be best to turn this position on the north, reach the river as rapidly as possible, and make for Lee's Mill, which I understood was the rebel salient, and see what was above that point, when I heard galloping in the road behind us. Nick had heard the noise before it reached my ears.

A rebel horseman dashed by; at the picket-line he stopped, and remained a few moments without dismounting; then went on up the road toward Warwick Court-House.

At once there was great commotion on the picket-line. We crept up as near as we dared; men were hurrying about, getting their knapsacks and falling into ranks. Now came a squadron of cavalry from down the road; they passed through the picket-line, and were soon lost to sight. Then the picket marched off up the road. Ten minutes more and half a dozen cavalrymen came--the rear-guard of all, I was hoping--and passed on.

The picket post now seemed deserted. Partly with the intention of getting nearer the river, but more, I confess, with the hope of appeasing hunger, Nick and I now cautiously approached the abandoned line. We were afraid to show ourselves in the road, so we crawled through the felled timber.

The camp was entirely deserted. Scattered here and there over the ground were the remains of straw beds; some brush arbours--improvised shelters--were standing; we found enough broken pieces of hardtack to relieve our most pressing want.

I followed the line of felled timber to the north; it ended within two hundred yards of the road.

"Nick," said I; "what is between us and the river in this direction?" pointing northwest.

"Noth'n' but woods tell you git down in de bottom," said Nick.

"And the bottom, is it cultivated? Is it a field?"

"Yassa; some of it is, but mos' of it ain't."

"Are there any more soldiers on this side of the river?"

"You mean 'long here?"

"Yes."

"Well, I dunno ezackly; I reckon dey is all gone now; but dey is some mo' up on dis side, up higher, up on de upper head o' de riber, whah Lee's Mill is."

"How far is it to Lee's Mill?"

"Hit's mos' fo' mile."

"How deep is the river above Lee's Mill?"

"Riber is deep down below de mill."

"Is the river deep here?" pointing west.

"Yassa; de tide comes up to Lee's Mill."

"Are there no Southern soldiers below Lee's Mill?"

"Dey goes down dat-away sometimes."

"Are there any breastworks below Lee's Mill?"

"Down at de mill de breswucks straks off to de Jim Riber up at de Pint."

"Up at what Point?"

"Up at de Mulberry Pint."

"And right across the river here, there are no breastworks?"

"No, sa'; dey ain't no use to have 'em dah."

Feeling confident that the movements I had seen indicated the withdrawal of at least some of the rebel outposts to their main line beyond the Warwick, and that I could easily and alone reach the river and follow it up--since the rebel line was on its other bank or beyond--I decided to let Nick go.

"Nick," said I; "I don't believe I shall need you any more now."

"You not a-gwine to gimme dat yudda dolla'?"

"Oh, yes; of course I shall pay you, especially if you will attend closely to what I tell you; you are to serve me till night, are you not?"

"Yassa."

"Well, I want you to go to the Union army at Newport News for me. Will you do it?"

"Yassa."

"Now, Nick, you must look sharp on the road and not let the rebels catch you."

"I sho' look sharp," said Nick.

"And look sharp for the Union army, too; I hope you will meet some Union soldiers; then you will be safe."

"I sho' look sharp," said Nick.

"I want you to carry a note for me to the Union soldiers."

"Yassa."

I wrote one word on a scrap of paper that I had picked up in the rebel camp. I gave the paper to Nick.

"Throw this paper away if you meet any rebels; understand?"

"Yassa."

"When you meet Union soldiers, you must give this paper to the captain."

"Yassa."

"The captain will ask you what this paper means, and you must tell him that the Southern soldiers are leaving Warwick Court-House, and that the paper is to let him know it."

"Yassa; I sho' do it; I won't do noth'n' but look sharp, en' I won't do noth'n' but give dis paper to de cap'n."

"Then here is your other dollar, Nick. Good-by and good luck to you."

Nick started off at once, and I was alone again.

My next objective was Lee's Mill, which I knew was on the Warwick River some three miles above. Without Nick to help my wits, my cautiousness increased, although I expected to find no enemy until I was near the mill. I went first as nearly westward as I could know; my purposes were to reach the river and roughly ascertain its width and depth; if it should be, as Nick had declared, unfordable in these parts, its depth would be sufficient protection to the rebels behind it, and I would waste no time in examining its course here. Through the undergrowth I crept, sometimes on my hands and knees, and whenever I saw an opening in the woods before me, I paused long and looked well before either crossing or flanking it. After a while I reached heavy timber in the low ground, which I supposed lay along the river. At my left was a cleared field, unplanted as yet, and in the middle of the field a dwelling with outhouses. I approached the house, screening myself behind a rail fence. The house was deserted. I passed through the yard. There was no sign of any living thing, except a pig which scampered away with a loud snort of disapproval. The house was open, but I did not enter it; the windows were broken, and a mere glance showed me that the place had been stripped.

Again I plunged into the woods, and went rapidly toward the river, for I began to fear that I had been rash in coming through the open. Soon I struck the river, which here bent in a long curve across the line of my march. The river was wide and deep.

At once I felt confidence in Nick's declarations. There could be little need for Confederate fortifications upon the other side of this unfordable stream.

It must have been about noon; I thought I heard firing far to my rear, and wondered what could be going on back there.

Leaving the river, I directed my steps toward the northeast. So long as I was in the woods I went as rapidly as I could walk, and the country, even away from the river, was much wooded. My knowledge of the map placed Lee's Mill northeast of Warwick, and northeast I went, but for fully three hours I kept on and found no river again. I felt sure that I had leaned too far to the east, and was about to turn square to my left and seek the river, when I saw before me a smaller stream flowing westward. I did not understand. I knew that I had come a much greater distance than three miles; I had crossed two large roads running north; this stream was not down on the map. Suddenly the truth was seen; this stream was the Warwick itself, and above Lee's Mill; here it was small, as Nick had intimated.

I turned westward; I had come too far; there must be a great angle in the river below me, and that angle must be at Lee's Mill.

Not more than a hunched yards down the stream there was a dam, seemingly a new dam made of logs and earth. At the time I could not understand why it was there. On the other side of the water, which seemed to be deep, though narrow; I could hear a drum beating. A road, a narrow country road, ran seemingly straight into the water. Only a few steps to my left there was an elbow of the road, I moved to this elbow, keeping in the bushes, and looked down on the water. There was no sign of a ferry; I could see the road where it left the water on the other side, and I could see men passing back and forth across the road some two or three hundred yards away.

For a long time I racked my brains before I understood the meaning of this road's going into deep water. What could it mean? Certainly there was a reason for it, and a strong reason. The ordinary needs of the country would require a ferry, and there was no ferry. I had looked long and closely, and was sure there was no ferry, and was almost as sure that there never had been one. The road before my eyes was untravelled; the ruts were weeks old, without the sign of a fresh track since the last rains; the road was not now used, that was a certainty.

When was this road used? ... The whole situation became clear; the road had been a good road before the rebels came; when they fortified their lines they rendered the road useless. They destroyed the ford by building the dam below.

I made my way down the stream, little elated at my solution of what at first had seemed a mystery, for I felt that Nick would have told me offhand all about it.

In less than a mile I came to another road running into deep water. Now, thought I, if my solution is correct, we shall shortly see another dam, and it was not five minutes before I came in sight of the second dam.

I climbed a tree near by; I could see portions of a line of earthworks on the other side of the river. The line of works seemed nearly straight, at least much more nearly so than the river was. To attack the Confederate lines here would be absurd, unless our troops could first destroy the dams and find an easy crossing.

By this time the middle of the afternoon had passed, and I was famishing. I believed it impossible that I should be able to get any food, and the thought made me still hungrier; yet I cast about me to see if there was any way to get relief. I blamed myself for not having brought food from camp. I had made up my mind to remain this night near the river, as I could not get back to camp, seeing that my work was not yet done, until the next day; so I must expect many hours of sharp hunger unless I could find food.

I now felt convinced that on the rebel left there was a continuous line of works behind the Warwick, from Lee's Mill up to Yorktown, and all I cared to prove was whether that line had its angle at the former place, as Nick had declared, and as seemed reasonable to me from every consideration. I would, then, make my way carefully down the river to Lee's Mill, and if possible finish my work before sunset; but my hunger was so great that I thought it advisable to first seek food. So, deferring my further progress down the stream, I set out in an easterly direction by the road which had crossed previously above the second dam, in the hope that this road would lead me to some house where help could be found, for I was now getting where risks must be run; food was my first need.

However, I did not expose myself, but kept out of the road, walking through this woods. My road was soon enlarged by another road joining it, coming in from the north and seeming well worn from recent use. I had been walking for nearly a mile when I heard a noise behind me--clearly the noise of horses coming. I lay flat behind a bush which grew by a fallen tree. Three horsemen--rebels--passed, going southward. They passed at a walk, and were talking, but their words could not be distinguished. The middle man was riding a gray horse.

About half a mile, or perhaps less, farther on, the woods became less dense, and soon I came to a clearing; in this clearing was what the Southern people call a settlement, which consisted of a small farmhouse with, a few necessary outbuildings.

Hitched to the straight rail fence that separated, the house yard from the road, were three horses, one of them gray, with saddles on their backs. I was not more than fifty yards distant from the horses, and could plainly see a holster in front of one of the saddles.

No sound came from the house. I lay down and watched and listened. The evening was fast drawing on, and there were clouds in the west, but the sun had not yet gone down, and there would yet be an hour or two of daylight. I feared that my approach to Lee's Mill must be put off till the morrow.

A woman came out of the house and drew a bucket of water at the well in the yard. She then returned into the house, with her pail of water. Now the sound of men's voices could be heard, and the stamping of heavy foot within the house; a moment afterward three men came out and approached the horses.

The woman was standing at the door; one of the men shaded his eyes with his hand and looked toward the west, where a dazzling cloud-edge barely hid the sun from view. He was looking directly over my head; dropping his hand he said, "An hour high, yit." This man was nearer to me than the others were. I could less distinctly hear the words of the others, but when this one got near their horses a conversation was held with the woman standing in the doorway, and the voices on both sides were raised.

"Yes," said one of the men, preparing to mount the gray horse, "yes, I reckin this is the last time we'll trouble you any more."

"Your room's better'n your company," said the woman, whose words, by reason of her shrill voice, as well as because she was talking toward me, were more distinctly heard than the man's.

"Now don't be ungrateful," said the man, who by this time was astride his horse; "you've not lost anything by me. If the Yanks treat you as well as us, you may thank your God."

"Self-praise is half scandal," said the woman; "I'm willin' to risk 'em if God sends 'em."

The man, turning his horse and riding after his two companions, shouted back: "Hit's not God as is a sendin' 'em; hit's somebody else!"

"You seem to be mighty well acquainted!" fired the woman, as a parting shot.

When the man had overtaken his comrades at the turning of the road, I had but little reluctance in going into the house. The woman stared at me. My gray civilian clothes caught her eye; evidently she did not know what to think of me. She said nothing, and stood her ground in the middle of the floor.

I first asked for a drink of water; she pointed to the bucket, in which there was a common gourd for a dipper. I quenched my thirst; then I said; "Madam, I will pay you well if you will let me have what cold food you have in the house."

"Did you see them men a-ridin' away from here jest now?" she asked.

"I heard some voices," said I; "who were they?"

"They was some of our men; three of 'em; they et up most ev'ything I had, so I hain't got much."

"See what there is," said I, "and please be as quick as you can."

She went into another room, and speedily returned with a "pone" of corn-bread.

"This is all they is," she said.

"Have you no potatoes? no bacon?"

"I've got some bacon," she said; "but it ain't cooked."

"Let me have a pound or two, anyway," said I.

She brought out a large piece of bacon. "My ole man's gone down to Worrick to-day," she said, "an' won't be back tell night; an' you soldiers, a-leavin' the country all at oncet, hit makes me feel kinder skittish."

"Yes," said I; "I don't wonder at your alarm, for they say the Yankees are coming. I don't suppose they will be here before to-morrow, though--maybe not till the day after."

"Them other men said they was the last to go," she replied; "but I reckin they didn't know you was a-comin' on behind 'em."

"No," said I; "if they had known I was coming, they wouldn't have run off and left me so; I might have ridden behind one of them. I don't suppose I can overtake them now, unless they stop again."

"That you can't," said she; "they won't have no call to stop tell they git to the camp, an' hit's jest this side of the mill."

"How far is it to Lee's Mill?" I asked,

She looked at me suspiciously, and I feared that I had made a mistake.

"Hit's not fur," she replied; "hain't you never been thar?"

"Not by this road," I answered. "How much shall I pay you?"

"Well, Mister, I don't know; set your own price."

I handed her a silver half-dollar. Her eyes fastened on me. I had made another mistake.

"If that is not enough," said I, "you shall have more," showing her a one-dollar Confederate note.

"Oh, this is a plenty," she replied; "but I was a-wonderin' to see silver agin."

"I have kept a little for hard times," I said.

"You have? Well, the sight of it is cert'n'y good for sore eyes."

"Can I reach Lee's Mill before dark?" I asked.

"Well, I reckin you kin, ef you walk fast enough," she said; "anyhow, you kin git to the camp on this side."

"Well, good day, madam; I wish you well," said I.

"Good-by, Mister," she said.

I had already opened the gate, when I heard her come to the door; she raised her voice a little, and said,--

"When you git to the big road, you'll be in a mile o' the mill."

So long as I was in sight of the house I kept in the road, but as soon as I got through the clearing, I struck off to the right through the woods. I was seeking some hiding place where I could eat and sleep.

When, early in the morning, I had seen the pickets retire from the post near Warwick, I had thought that the rebels were all withdrawing to their main lines; this thought had received some corroboration from the firing heard in my rear later in the day; I had believed the Union troops advancing behind me; but afterward I had seen other rebels at the woman's house, and I now doubted what I had before believed. Besides, it was clear from the woman's words that there was a rebel post this side of Lee's Mill, and I was yet in danger.

The woods wore dense. Soon I saw before me a large road running west, the big road of which the woman had spoken, no doubt. I crept up to it, and, seeing no one in either direction, ran across it, and into the woods beyond. I went for half a mile or more, in a southwest course, and found a spot where I thought I could spend the night in safety. For fear of being detected I dug a hole, with my knife, in the earth, and piled the loose earth around the hole; then I lighted a fire of dry sticks at the bottom. Night had not yet come, but it was very gloomy in this dense thicket surrounded by woods; I had little fear that any reflection or smoke would betray me, for the thicket was impenetrable to the view of any one who should not come within two rods. I broiled my bacon and toasted my bread, and though I fared very well, yet after eating I wanted water and chose to remain thirsty rather than in the darkness to search for a spring or a stream in the woods.

I quenched the fire with the loose earth; I raked up leaves with my hands and made a bed. I had no covering, but the night was not cold, threatening rain, and the thicket sheltered me from the wind.

Some time in the night I awoke to find that I had dreamed of lying in a mountain brook with my mouth up stream and the water running through my whole body. My mouth was parched. I must have water at any risk.

I set out in I know not what direction. I had put the remains of my supper into my coat pocket, for my judgment told me that in all likelihood I could never return to the spot I was leaving.

Before I had been walking ten minutes, I knew that I was completely lost; I went through thickets and briers, over logs and gullies, round and round, I suspect, for hour in and hour out, until just before day I saw the reflection of fire through the woods, and at the same time almost fell into a small pool. It was the reflection of the light by the pool which at once showed me the water and saved me from finding it with a sense other than sight.

I drank and drank again; then I wondered what the fire meant. Although it seemed far off, I was afraid of it; likely enough it was some rebel camp-fire; I had no idea whither I had wandered, I turned my back on the light, and walked until I could see it no more; then I stretched myself under a tree, but could not sleep. Day was coming.

After a while it began to rain, and I had a most uncomfortable time of it. It required considerable effort of will on my part to determine to move, for I did not know which way to start. I set out, however, and had gone a short distance, when I noticed the green moss at the root of a large tree, and I remembered that I had read in stories of Indians and hunters that such moss always grows on the north side of the trees. So I then turned westward, for I knew that I had crossed no road in my wanderings of the night, and I also knew that the main road from Warwick Court-House to Lee's Mill was at the west. A little at my left I saw a great tree with a sloping trunk, and I went to it for shelter; it was raining harder. When I reached the tree I saw a road just beyond. I sat under the tree, the inclined trunk giving me shelter from the rain and hiding me from the road. While eating the remains of my supper, I heard the tramp of horses, and looking out cautiously, saw a company of rebel cavalry going northward at a trot. At the same time I could distinctly hear skirmish firing behind me, not half a mile off, seemingly. The rain still fell and I held my place.

All at once I saw two men in the road; they were Union soldiers--infantry--skirmishers.

Before I could speak to them I was aware of the fact that an advancing line of our skirmishers was on either side of me.

"Hello, here!" cried one of them; "who are _you?_"

"Keep your place in line, Private Lewis," said an officer, coming up, "I'll attend to that man."

"Privates Jones and George, halt! Skirmishers, fill intervals to the right!"

Two men came to the lieutenant.

"Who _are_ you, sir?" asked the lieutenant.

"Private Berwick, Eleventh Massachusetts," said I.

"Do you know anything of the enemy? Speak quick!"

"They are this side of Lee's Mill, Lieutenant, but I got lost in the night, and I don't even know where I am now. About fifty of their cavalry went by ten minutes ago."

The line went on in the rain.

The lieutenant placed me in charge of the two men, ordering them to take me at once to the rear, and to report to General Davidson. I have never learned the name of that lieutenant; he had some good qualities.

Meanwhile a sharp skirmish was going on in front, and our line did not seem to advance. A section of artillery dashed by. I began to understand that, if I had gone on a few hundred yards, I should have run upon the enemy in force.

I was brought before General Davidson. He was on horse, at the head of his brigade. He asked me my name.

"Jones Berwick, General," said I.

"What is your business?"

"I am a private, sir, in the Eleventh Massachusetts."

He smiled at this; then he asked, still smiling, "Where is your regiment?"

"It is in camp below Washington, General, I suppose; at least, it had not reached Newport News on the evening of the day before yesterday."

"How is it that you are here while your regiment is still near Washington?"

"I had surgeon's leave to precede my regiment on account of my health, General."

"And this is the way you take care of your health, is it, by lying out in the woods in the rain?"

"It was a month ago, General, that the surgeon dismissed me, and I am now fully recovered."

General Davidson looked serious. "You were at Newport News on day before yesterday?"

"I was near Newport News, sir, at the Sanitary camp. General McClellan had just arrived at Fortress Monroe; so I heard before I left."

"And what are you doing here? I think you have the Southern accent."

"I have been told so before, General; but I am not a Southerner; I came out to observe the rebel lines."

"By whose authority?"

Now, I could have told General Davidson that I had had a pass, signed by such an officer; but I feared to do so, lest some complication should arise which would give trouble to such an officer, for Dr. Khayme had not fully informed me about my privileges.

"It was only a private enterprise, General."

"Tell me all about it," he said.

I said briefly that, on the day before, I had passed up the Warwick River; and that the main line of the enemy lay behind it; that the fords had been destroyed by dams, and that there were no rebels on this side of the river now, in my opinion, except pickets, and possibly a force just in front of Lee's Mill.

"But do you not hear the rebel artillery now?" he asked.

"I think, General, that the rebel artillery is firing from the other side of the river, but I admit that I am not sure of it. Night came on me yesterday before I could reach Lee's Mill, and I have nothing but hearsay in regard to that place."

"What have you heard?"

I told him what the woman had said.

"What proof can you give me that you are not deceiving me?" he asked sternly.

"I do not know, General," said I, "that I can give you any proof; I wish I could; perhaps you can so question me as to satisfy you."

The general sent a courier to the front. He then wrote a line on a piece of paper, and handed the note to another courier, who rushed off to the rear. In a few minutes an officer rode up from the rear; he saluted General Davidson, who spoke earnestly to him in a low tone. I could easily guess that he was speaking of me.

Then, the officer approached me, and asked many questions about my service:--where I was from--where was my regiment from--who was its colonel--who was my captain--how I had come to the army ahead of my regiment, etc. To all these questions I gave brief and quick replies. Then the officer asked for a detailed account of my scout, which I gave him in as few words as I knew how to use. When I spoke of Nick, his eye brightened; when I spoke of giving Nick a note, he nodded his head. Then he asked, "What did you write?"

"The word _going_," I said.

"Have you a pencil?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Here, take this, and write the word _going_," he said, handing me a small blank-book.

On a leaf of the book I wrote the word, and my signature below.

Then the officer took another book from his pocket, and looked attentively at both books.

Then he said: "General, I think there is something in what he says. Better be careful of your advance."

And to me, "You must need rest and food; come with me, Mr. Berwick."

That night I slept in Dr. Khayme's tent.

XI

FORT WILLIS

"This is the sergeant,
Who like a bold and hardy soldier fought."
--SHAKESPEARE.

After having been well treated at General Keyes's headquarters, I had been given a seat in an ambulance going back to Newport News. The officer who had questioned me proved to be one of the general's aides. The negro Nick had succeeded in avoiding the rebels, and had delivered my message, with which my handwriting showed identity; moreover, General Keyes, when the matter was brought to his attention, immediately declared with a laugh that his friend Khayme's protégé was a "brick."

The physical and mental tension to which I had been continuously subjected for more than two days was followed by a reaction which, though natural enough, surprised me by its degree. I lay on a camp-bed after supper, utterly done. The Doctor and Lydia sat near me, and questioned me on my adventures, as they ware pleased to term my escapade. Lydia was greatly interested in my account of my visit to the woman's house; the Doctor's chief interest was centred on Nick.

"Jones," said he, "you were right from a purely prudential point of view in testing the negro well; but in your place I should have trusted him the instant I learned that he was a slave."

"But, Father," said Lydia; "you surely don't think that all the slaves wish to be free."

"No, I don't; but I believe that every man slave, who has independence of character sufficient to cause him to be alone at night between two hostile armies, wishes to be free."

"You are right, Doctor," said I; "but you must admit, I think, that at the time I could hardly reason so clearly as you can now."

This must have been said very sleepily, for Lydia exclaimed, "Father, Mr. Berwick needs rest."

"Yes, madam; he needs rest, but not such as you are thinking of. Let me fully unburden himself in a mild and gentlemanly way; then he can sleep the sleep of the just."

"Oh, Father, your words sound like a funeral service."

"I am alive, Miss Lydia; and you know the Doctor believes that the just live forever."

"The just? I believe everybody lives forever, and always did live."

"Even, the rebels?" then I thought that I should have said "slaveholders."

"Rebels will live forever, but they will cease to be rebels, that is, after they have accomplished their purposes, and rebellion becomes unnecessary."

"Then, you admit at last that rebellion, and consequently war, are necessary?"

"No, I don't see how you can draw such an inference," said the Doctor; "rebellion cannot make war necessary, and hostility to usurped authority is always right."

"How can there be such without war as a consequence?" I asked languidly.

"Father," said Lydia, "please let Mr. Berwick rest."

"Madam, you are keeping him from going to sleep; I am only making him sleepy."

Lydia retired.

I wondered if the Doctor knew to the full what he was saying. He continued: "Well, Jones, I'll let you off now on that subject; but I warn you that it is the first paper on the programme for to-morrow. By the way, you will have but a few days' rest now; your regiment is expected on the tenth."

"Glad to hear it, Doctor."

"So you think the Confederate lines are very strong?"

"Yes, they are certainly very strong, at least that part of them that I saw. What they are near Yorktown, I cannot say, of course."

"I can see one thing," said the Doctor.

"What is that?"

"The map we have is incorrect."

"How so?"

"It makes the Warwick creek too short and too straight."

"I found it very long," said I; "and it is wide, and it is deep, and it cannot be turned on the James River side except by the fleet."

"The fleet is not going to turn that line; the fleet is doing nothing, and probably will do nothing until the _Merrimac_ is disposed of."

"Doctor, how in the world do you get all your information?"

"By this and that," said the Doctor.

"How we are to get at the rebels I can't see," said I.

"On the Yorktown end of their line," replied the Doctor.

"It seems to me a singular coincidence," said I, "that our troops should have been advancing behind me all day yesterday."

"Do you object?" he asked.

"Not at all; I was about used up when they found me. What I should have done I don't well see."

"You would have been compelled to start back," he said.

"Yes," said I, "and I had no food, and should have been compelled to wait till night to make a start."

Dr. Khayme was exceedingly cheerful; he smoked incessantly and faster than he usually smoked. The last thing I can remember before sleep overcame my senses was the thought that the idol's head looked alive, and that the smoke-clouds which rose above it and half hid the Doctor's face were not mere forms that would dissipate and be no more; they seemed living beings--servants attendant on their master's will.

* * * * *

The next day was cold and damp. I went out but little. I wrote some letters, and rested comfortably. The Doctor gave me the news that Yorktown had been invested, and that there was promise of a siege instead of a battle.

"They have found the Confederate lines too strong to be taken by assault," said he; "and while McClellan waits for reënforcements, there will be nothing to prevent the Confederates from being reënforced; so mote it be."

"What! You are not impatient?"

"Certainly not."

"And you are willing for the enemy to be reënforced?"

"Oh, yes; I know that the more costly the war the sooner it will end."

"I think McClellan ought to have advanced before," said I; "he is likely to lose much time now."

"He has plenty of time; he has all the time there is."

"All the time there is! that means eternity."

"Of course; he has eternity, no more and no less."

"That is a long time," said I, thinking aloud.

"And as broad as it is long," said the Doctor; "everything will happen in that time."

"To McClellan?"

"Why not to McClellan? To all."

"Everything is a big word, Doctor."

"No bigger than eternity."

"And McClellan will win and will lose?"

"Yes."

"I hardly understand, Doctor, what you mean by saying that everything will happen."

"I mean," said he, "that change and eternity are all the conditions necessary to cause everything to come to pass."

"The rebels will win and the North will win?"

"Yes; both of these seemingly contradictory events will happen."

"You surely are a strange puzzle."

"I give myself enough time, do I not?"

"But time can never reconcile a contradiction."

"The contradiction is only seeming."

"Did both Confederates and Union troops win the battle of Bull Run?"

"The Confederates defeated the Federals," said the Doctor; "but the defeat will prove profitable to the defeated. What I mean by saying both North and South will win, you surely know; it is that the divine purpose, working in all the nations, will find its end and accomplishment, and this purpose is not limited, in the present wicked strife, to either of the combatants. What the heart of the people of both sections wants will come; what they want they fight for; but it would have come without war, as I was about to tell you last night, when you interrupted me by going to sleep."

"Yes," said I, laughing, "you were going to tell me how rebellion could exist and not bring war."

"And Mr. Berwick made his escape," said Lydia.

"But you promised to give it to me to-day, Doctor."

"Give it to me! That is an expression which I have heard used in two senses," said the Doctor.