University of Virginia Library

3. III.

The Captain knocked; was bidden to enter, and went in—I
following.

“A prisoner, Colonel,” said the Captain.

“Ah!” said Colonel Bradley Johnson, who was lying on his
camp bed.

“At my own request, Colonel.”

And pulling off one of a huge pair of gauntlets, I stuck a
paper at him.

Colonel Johnson—than whom no braver soldier or more delightful
companion exists—glanced at the document, then at me,
and made me a bow.

“All right. From Leesburg, Captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any news?”

“None at all. All quiet.”

“Are you going to General Stuart's headquarters to-night?”

“If I can find the road.”

“I really don't know it. I know where it is, but—”

“It will be necessary to send me, I suppose, Colonel?”

“Necessary?”

“I am a prisoner, you know, and I think General Stuart is in
command of the outpost.”

The Colonel began to laugh.

“That's true,” he said.

And turning round, he uttered the word—

“Courier.”

Now “courier” was evidently the designation of a gentleman
who at that moment was stretching himself luxuriously in one
corner of the room, drawing over his head a large white blanket,
with the air of a man who has finished his day's work, and is
about to retire to peaceful and virtuous slumber.

From several slight indications, it was obvious that the courier
had just returned after carrying a dispatch, and that he experienced
to its fullest extent the grateful sensation of having performed
all the duty that could be expected of him, and regarded
himself as legally and equitably entitled to at least six hours
sleep, in the fond embrace of his white blanket.

Alas for the mutability of mundane things!—the unstable
character of all human calculations!

Even as he dismounted, and took off his saddle for the night,

Fate, in the person of the present writer, was on his track. As
he lay down, and wrapped himself luxuriously in that white
blanket, drawing a long breath, and extending his limbs with
Epicurean languor, the aforesaid Fate tapped him on the shoulder,
and bade him rise.

“Courier!”

And the head rose suddenly.

“Saddle up, and go with this gentleman to General Stuart's
headquarters.”

A deep sigh—almost a groan—a slowly rising figure rolling
up a white blanket, and this most unfortunate of couriers disappeared,
no doubt maligning the whole generation of wandering
aides-de-camp, and wishing that they had never been born.

With a friendly good-night to Colonel Johnson, whose hard
work in the field since that time has made his name familiar to
every one, and honourable to his State, I returned in company
with Edelin to the picket fire.

The courier disconsolately followed.

On the way I had further talk with Captain Edelin, and I
found him a jovial companion.

When I left him, we shook hands, and that is the first time
and the last time I ever saw “Captain Edelin of the old First
Maryland Regiment.” It was Monsieur D'Artagnan come to
life, as I have said; and I remembered very well the figure of
the Captain when I read that paragraph announcing his death.

He was a Baltimorean, and I have heard that his company was
made up in the following manner:

When the disturbances took place in Baltimore, in April,
1861, the leaders of the Southern party busied themselves in
organizing the crowds into something like a military body, and
for that purpose divided them into companies, aligning them
where they stood.

A company of about one hundred men was thus formed, and
the person who had counted it off said:

“Who will command this company?”

Two men stepped forward.

“I can drill them,” said the first.

“I have been through the Mexican war. I can fight them,”
said the other.

The command was given to the latter, and this was Edelin.
When the war commenced, he marched his company out, and
joined the Southern army.

Poor Edelin! He did not know he was arresting his historian
that night on the outpost!