2. II.
At the picket fire I found half-a-dozen men, neatly dressed
in Confederate gray.
“Which is the officer of the picket?” I said to the Serjeant.
“The small man—Captain Edelin.”
As he spoke Captain Edelin advanced to the foreground of the
picture, and the ruddy firelight gave me, at a glance, an idea of
the worthy.
He was about five feet six inches high, with a supple figure—
legs bent like those of a man who rides much—and a keen pair
of eyes, which roved restlessly. His boots reached to the knee;
an enormous sword clattered against them as he walked. The
worthy Captain Edelin was no bad representative of Captain
D'Artagnan, the hero of Dumas' “Three Guardsmen.”
When the Captain fixed his eyes upon me, he seemed to aim
at reading me through. When he questioned me he evidently
scrutinized my words carefully, and weighed each one.
Such a precaution was not unreasonable. The period was
critical, the time “dangerous.” Our generals entertained well
grounded fears that the enemy designed a flank movement on Centreville,
up this very road, either to attack Johnston and Beauregard's
left, or to cut off Evans at Leesburg, and destroy him
before succour could reach him. I was personally cognizant of
the fact that General Evans suspected such an attack, from conversation
with him in Leesburg, and was not surprised to find,
as I soon did, that the road over which the enemy must advance
to assail him was heavily picketed all along its extent in the
direction of Fairfax.
If this “situation” be comprehended by the reader, he will
not fail to understand why the Captain scrutinized me closely.
I was a stranger to him, had passed through the Confederate
lines, and was now far to the front. If I was in the Federal service
I had learned many things which would interest General
McClellan. Spies took precautions in accommodating their
dress and entire appearance to the rôle they were to play; and
why might I not be a friend of his Excellency President Lincoln,
wearing a Confederate uniform for the convenience of travelling?
So Captain Edelin scanned me with great attention, his eyes
trying to plunge to the bottom of my breast, and drag forth some
imaginary plot against the cause.
Being an old soldier of some months' standing, and experiencing
the pangs of hunger, I rapidly came to the point. Something
like the following dialogue passed between us:
“Captain Edelin, officer of the picket?” I inquired.
“Yes, sir,” returned the worthy, with a look which said, as
plainly as any words, “Who are you?”
I responded to the mute appeal:
“I am Aide to General Stuart, and in search of his
headquarters. I have no countersign. I left Leesburg this
morning, and to-night lost my way. What road is that yonder?”
“The Little River turnpike.”
“The Little River turnpike?”
“Yes.”
Then it all flashed on my bewildered brain! I had missed
the road which cut off the angle at Centreville, had taken a
wrong one in the dark, and been travelling between the two turnpikes
towards Fairfax, until chance brought me out upon the
Little River road, not far from “Chantilly.”
I stood for a moment looking at the Captain with stupefaction,
and then began to laugh.
“Good!” I said. “I should like particularly to know how
I got here. I thought I knew the country thoroughly, and that
this was the Warrenton road.”
“Which way did you come?” asked the Captain, suspiciously.
“By the Frying Pan road. I intended to take the short cut
to the left of Centreville.”
“You have come three or four miles out of the way.”
“I see I have—pleasant. Well, it won't take me much
longer than daylight to arrive, I suppose, at this rate.”
The Captain seemed to relish this cheerful view of the subject,
and the ghost of a smile wandered over his face.
“How far is it to General Stuart's headquarters?” I asked;
“and which road do I take?”
“That's just what I can't tell you.”
“Well, there's no difficulty about going on, I suppose? Here
are my papers; look at them.”
And I handed them to him. He read them by the firelight,
and returning them, said:
“That's all right, Captain, but—sorry—orders—unless you
have the countersign—”
“The countersign! But you are going to give me that?”
The Captain shook his head.
“Hang it, Captain, you don't mean to say you have the heart
to keep me here all night?”
“Orders must be obeyed—”
“Why, you are not really going to take possession of me? I
don't mind it for myself, as I have my blankets, and you will
give me some supper; but there's my horse without a mouthful
since morning.”
“That's bad; but—'
“You don't know me; I understand you. These papers, my
uniform, all may be got up for the occasion; still—”
“That's a fact; and you know orders are orders. On duty—
can't know anybody; and I'd like to see the man that can catch
Edelin asleep. My boys are just about the best trained fellows
you ever saw, and can see in the dark.”
“I have no doubt of it, Captain.”
“Just about the best company to be found.”
“I believe you.”
This cheerful acquiescence seemed to please the worthy.
“We're on picket here, and a mouse couldn't get through.”
“Exactly; and I wouldn't mind staying with you the least if
I had some supper.”
“Sorry you didn't come a little sooner; I could have given
you some.”
“See what I've missed; and after travelling all day, one gets
as hungry as a hawk. I'm afraid General Stuart's supper will
be eat up to the last mouthful.”
This seemed to affect the Captain. He had supped; I, his
brother soldier, had not.
“I'll tell you what,” he said, “I'll pass you through my
picket, but you can't get on to-night. Major Wheat's pickets
are every ten yards along the turnpike, and it would take you
all night to work your way.”
“Cheerful.”
“The best thing is to stay here.”
“I'd much rather get on.”
“But I can't even tell you the road to turn off on. I have no
one to send.”
As he spoke an idea struck me.
“What regiment is yours, Captain?” I asked.
“The First Maryland—as fine a regiment—”
“Who's your Colonel?”
“Bradley Johnson.”
“Well, arrest me, and take me to him.”
The Captain laughed.
“That would be best,” he said. “The Colonel's head-quarters
are in a small house just across the field. I'll go with you.”
So we set out, the huge sword of the worthy clattering against
his tall boots as he strode along. On the way he related at considerable
length the exploits of his Maryland boys, and renewed
his assurances of sympathy with my supperless condition—lamenting
the disappearance of his own.
In fact, I may say with modest pride that I had conquered the
worthy captain. Eloquence had reaped its reward—had had
its “perfect work.” From frigid, the Captain had become lukewarm;
from lukewarm, quite a pleasant glow had diffused itself
through his conversation. Then his accents had become even
friendly: he had offered me a part of his Barmecide supper, and
proposed to pass me through his picket.
I remember very well his short figure as it moved beside me;
his gasconades d la D'Artagnan; and his huge sabre, bobbing as
he walked. The end of it trailed upon the ground—so short
was the Captain's stature, so mighty the length of his weapon.
He strode on rapidly, talking away; and we soon approached
a small house in the middle of the large field, through whose
window a light shone.
In this house Colonel Bradley Johnson had established his
headquarters.
