4. IV.
A few words will terminate my account of “How I was arrested.”
I have spoken of the courier supplied me by Colonel
Johnson, and this worthy certainly turned out the most remarkable
of guides. After leaving Captain Edelin's picket, I proceeded
along the turnpike toward Germantown—continuing thus
to follow, as I have said, the very road I had travelled over
when the first picket stopped me at the mouth of the “Frying
Pan.”
I had gone round two sides of a triangle and was quietly advancing
as I might have done over the same route!
There was this disagreeable difference, however, that the night
was now dark; that the pickets were numerous and on the alert;
that neither I nor the courier knew the precise point to turn off;
and that Wheat's “Tigers,” then on picket, had an eccentric idea
that everybody stirring late at night, at such a time, was a
Yankee, and to be fired upon instantly. This had occurred more
than once—they had shot at couriers—and as they had no fires
you never knew when a picket was near.
This was interesting, but not agreeable. To have a friendly
“Tiger” regret the mistake and be sorry for killing you is something,
but not affecting seriously the general result.
Such appeared to be the view taken by my friend the courier.
He was in a tremendous state of excitement. I was not composed
myself; but my disquiet was connected with the idea of
supper, which I feared would be over. A day's fasting had
made me ravenous, and I hurried my driver constantly.
This proceeding filled my friend the courier with dire forebodings.
He several times rode back from his place some fifty
yards in advance to beg me pathetically to drive slower—he
could not hear the challenge if I drove so fast, and “they would
shoot!” This view I treated with scorn, and the result was,
that my guide was nearly beside himself with terror.
He besought me to be prudent; but as his idea of prudence
was to walk slowly along, listening with outstretched neck and
eager ears for the challenge of the pickets from the shadow of
the huge trees, and to shout out the countersign immediately
upon being halted, with a stentorian voice which could be heard
half a mile; as his further views connected with the proprieties
of the occasion seemed to impel him to hold long and confidential
conversations with the “Tigers,” to the effect that he and I
were, in the fullest sense of the term, “all right;” that I was
Aide to General Stuart; that I had come that day from Leesburg;
that I had lost my way; that I was not a suspicious character;
that he was in charge of me—as this method of proceeding, I say,
seemed to constitute the prudence which he urged upon me so
eloquently, I treated his remonstrances and arguments with rude
and hungry disregard.
Instead of waiting quietly while he palavered with the sentinels,
I broke the dialogue by the rough and impolite words to
the sentinel:
“Do you know the road which leads in to General Stuart's
headquarters?”
“No, sir.”
“Drive on!”
And again the vehicle rolled merrily along, producing a terrible
rattle as it went, and filling with dismay the affrighted courier,
who, I think, gave himself up for lost.
But I am dwelling at too great length upon my “guide, philosopher,
and friend,” the courier, and these subsequent details of
my journey. I have told how I was arrested—a few words will
end my sketch.
We soon reached the “Ox Hill Road,” and here some information
was obtained.
A friendly and intelligent “Tiger,” with a strong Irish brogue,
declared that this was the route, and I proceeded over a horrible
road into the woods.
A mile brought me to camp fires and troops asleep—no answer
greeted my shout, and, getting out of the carriage, I went
through a sort of abattis of felled trees, and stirred up a sleeper
wrapped to the nose in his blanket.
“Which is the road to General Stuart's headquarters?” I asked.
“Don't know, sir.”
And the head disappeared under the blanket.
“What regiment is this?”
The nose re-appeared.
“Tigers.”
Then the blanket was wrapped around the peaceful Tiger,
who almost instantly began to snore.
A little further the road forked, and I took that one which
led toward a glimmering light. That light reached, my troubles
ended. It was the headquarters of Major Wheat, who poured
out his brave blood, in June, 1862, on the Chickahominy, and I
speedily received full directions. Ere long I reached Mellen's,
my destination, in time for supper, as well as a hearty welcome
from the best of friends and generals.
So ends my story, gentle reader. It cannot be called a “thrilling
narrative,” but is true, which is something after all in these
“costermonger times.”
At least, this is precisely “How I was arrested.”
