Sure enough, I had forgotten all about that, but told him that was no difference--that half the men in Banks' Army were only waiting a favorable chance to come over and join them. The officer, who was a conceited fellow, who had been placed in charge of the pickets or cavalry scouts on this outpost for the day, eagerly swallowed this stuff. It will be remembered that at this time--only a week after their victory at Bull Run--the Rebels were prepared to believe almost anything reported to them from our side and were, of course, somewhat lax in their scrutiny of refugees, who were actually going over the line daily to unite their fortunes with those of the South, whom they were sure after the first battle must be victorious.

We had quite a pleasant talk as we stood together by the roadside awaiting the result of the chase of my comrade. It was explained by the officer that their instructions were not to fire except in certain emergencies; the object of their being there was to quietly observe the operations of the Yankees from their points of lookout on the heights, from which a full view of everything transpiring on our side was to be had.

This was an item of news from the Rebel officer which I should like General Banks to have been advised of. He further astonished me by saying:

"We have been watching you two fellows all the afternoon; we saw you cross the river, and when you came up the hill our men up there came in and reported that you were two scouts, and could be captured, so I was sent down here to gather you in."

I was able to force what I am afraid was rather a sickly laugh at this exhibition of our "prowess," and, as a further earnest of our good intentions, I volunteered to accompany the officer down the road, with a view of meeting my running comrade and signaling him it would be all right to come in.

Accepting this service, we walked rapidly together in the direction taken by the two men with guns, but as all three had stopped to hear my story, my chum had probably been making good time along _his_ side of the fence, which, with the undergrowth, had served to keep him out of sight, and had stretched the distance between him and the Rebels, but, as the river was still to ford, I feared, for my own safety, that he might yet be captured.

We had not gone far when we met the two men returning alone. To the eager questioning of the officer the foremost one replied:

"We been down to the river and he ain't thar." The second Rebel joining in, said: "That fellow's in the woods, sure--he never went to the river."

After a little consultation, in which I took part, it was decided to wait and watch till he should come out of his hole. With a view to making myself more solid with the officer, I volunteered to assist in the hunt by proposing to call loudly on my friend to come out of his hiding place and join us. The proposition was, in a courteous manner, conditionally accepted, the officer being fearful that any loud calls might be heard by the Yankee's outposts and endanger their secluded outlooks, advised that I should be moderate in my outcry. Climbing up on the fence and putting both hands to my mouth to form the trumpet boys use when hallooing to their playmates, I sang out as loudly as I could, "H-e-l-l-o-o-a, B-o-b!"

All eagerly listened for the echo in reply, but I, fearful that he might answer, continued in the next breath:

"All right," and as I forced a little choking cough, to disguise and smother the words, like the robber in Fra Diavalo, "Come on!"

All waited quietly for an answer, but only the echo "on" came back. Bob was too far off to have heard my voice, and I realized I had been left alone in the hands of the Rebels. I was a prisoner.

There is among some old letters that my sister has religiously preserved--one from a stranger, signed with Bob's correct name and address, describing in feeling terms our adventure, and my capture, bewailing my sad fate, and tendering his heartfelt sympathy, pretty much in the same form of letters from comrades in the field, which became frequent in the families of the North and South announcing the death or capture of sons and brothers, in which it is stated that, as my companion heard shots after he left me, and he supposed, of course, I had been killed. I may as well state that this letter was written by Mr.

C. W. Hoffman, who is now a resident of Latrobe, Pennsylvania.

Comrade Hoffman served subsequently with distinction as a scout, being detailed as one of a party to approach Fort Sumter previous to the attack made there.

A pleasant renewal of the old war acquaintance has recently been brought about. I give herewith a recent letter from Mr. Hoffman:

LATROBE, PENN., March 29, 1887.

J. O. KERBEY.

_Dear Old Friend:_ I often thought of you. I learned your present address from your brother at Wilmore. What are you doing? Let us hear from you. I am the fellow that run away from you on the mountains, in Virginia, in August, 1861. I went on quite a distance that day. I slept on that mountain all night.

The next day I returned to the hotel at Sandy Hook. I had quite a time of it: I saw several Rebel cavalrymen, but I always made it a point to keep out of their way, as I had the blue pants and blouse on. Those fellows made their headquarters next to where you made the inquiries at the old woman's log house.

It was a wonder they did not take me a prisoner, as at times I wandered out in the country very barely. Wasn't there a Rebel camp near Leesburg, or was that the name of the town near that mountain? I suppose it is about eight miles from Harper's Ferry. I could hear drums beating plainly--I was not far from the town. I had quite a time of it when I returned to Sandy Hook--I was arrested as a spy, was thrown into the guard house, but finally got out all right. I was a scout and had papers to show to that effect, but never did much at it. Hoping to hear from you.

Yours truly, C. W. HOFFMAN.

As a further evidence of the correctness of my narrative, and with a view of adding interest to the story, I publish herewith a private letter from my brother, Spencer, who was at that time in the Military Telegraph Service. My aunt Ruth, to whom it was addressed, and who was a mother to us both, passed many sleepless nights on account of my wanderings, has recently resurrected some interesting testimonials.

CAMP UNION, NEAR BLADENSBURGH, MD.,} September 9th, 1861. }

_Dear Aunt:_ By some unaccountable reason your letter was delayed. It was handed me by an "orderly" this evening. I presume it's beyond the possibility of a doubt that poor Joe was killed at Sandy Hook. My grief can better be imagined than described. None but those who have suffered the severing of ties of a loving brother's affection can form an idea of my heart's affliction. My dear sisters, how deeply and sincerely I sympathize with them in the deplorable loss of an ambitious brother. That letter must have almost broken Hatty's heart. It must have been a violent shock to father, but why should I so write and rouse within all of you the bitter renewal of your grief? We have for our support, that brother Joe fell nobly in the cause of his country, lamented by an affectionate and loving family, relatives and friends. It is to be hoped that when the keen sensibilities of our passions begin to subside that these considerations will give us comfort. I pray that the Almighty may give us (particularly father) fortitude to bear this severest of strokes, is the earnest wish of a

Brother in affliction, SPENCER.

CHAPTER X.

AT BEAUREGARD'S HEADQUARTERS--ON DUTY AT MANASSAS.

I didn't report to General Banks _that_ night--circumstances entirely beyond my control prevented me from doing so. I was, by the "fortunes of war," or my own carelessness, denied the privilege of proving to the General that I was "smart" enough to get through his own lines and back again from the enemy's country without the use of passes from his headquarters. If this should reach the eye of General Banks, he will, for the first time, read my official report of the scout, which I had proposed to him in July, 1861, and will, I am sure, in his courteous manner, accept, even at this late date, this apology or explanation for my failure to keep my engagement with him.

Luckily for me, at that particular time I did not have in my possession any passes from General Banks, or letter of introduction from the Secretary of War, endorsing me as a competent spy. These I had left with General Patterson a few days previously.

Leaving the two soldiers to further look after the road, in hope of enticing my friend in--not that they were so anxious for the person of a prisoner--but, as they said, it was important no one should escape to report the fact that a station for observation was being maintained on the heights.

Alongside of my officer I walked for quite a long distance, talking in a general way upon the subject which was then uppermost in everybody's mind--_i. e._, the recent battle of Bull Run. For good reasons, I heartily agreed with his absurd conclusions. I knew full well the importance of creating upon his mind the impression that I was a _bona fide_ refugee, and with the instinctive shrewdness partly born of my former experience I was successful in fully satisfying the officer that the Southern army had secured another hearty supporter, or zealous recruit. It was scarcely possible to undo the thing at that time, as the whole South were wild in their enthusiasm after Bull Run, and to this fact I may partially ascribe my escape from detection and execution.

The only fear that I entertained was, that I might meet either with some Maryland refugees who might cross-question me too closely, or perhaps I might again encounter the Rebel Spy I had met at General Patterson's headquarters; or, worst of all, that some of those Pensacola troops, or Texas acquaintances, might have been transferred to Beauregard's army, and would recognize me.

A captive is always an object of curiosity. I must expect to be gazed upon, stared at, and scrutinized wherever I should be taken.

I might explain away any objections that would offer to the refugee story, as there was no evidence existing that I had recently acted the part of a scout; but the Fort Pickens episode could not be so explained.

The mere discovery of my identity meant a speedy hanging, without the form of a court-martial.

I believe I have not yet tried to describe my personal appearance at that time.

I had, from a mere lad, been wearing my hair long, combed back of my ears; despite the jeering remarks of my companions, my "back hair"

reached my shoulders, where, truth compels me to admit, it lay in better curls than Buffalo Bill's, Texas Jack's, or, more recently, that of "Jack Crawford," the cow-boy scout.

Probably my long hair was in part accepted by the rebels as an evidence that I naturally belonged to the South, where the style was more common than in the North. It will be remembered, too, in extenuation of my fancy, that I had spent the previous winter in Texas, the climate of which is favorable to the growth of hair on the cow-boys.

My dress, at the time of our surprise, consisted simply and only of a fine, colored, traveling shirt with open rolling collar, red loose necktie, dark trousers, and a coat of the same, topped off by a small, soft, slouch hat; of course, I had shoes which were pretty well worn, and my feet had become quite sore from so much walking. This was not a very complete wardrobe out of which to fashion a costume for a disguise.

My face had become very much sun-burned, and, in bathing, while exposed to the hot sun, my shoulders had become blistered, so that the flannel or cloth overshirt peeled the skin off in a most uncomfortable way.

Reaching the advance of the Rebel outposts, which were located at an old house--half farm and half tavern--situated on the bank of the little stream at the ford or point where the highway or pike crossed which led to Manassas, we found assembled quite a number of Rebel cavalry soldiers, who were entertaining in their exuberant, self-satisfied way, quite a crowd of civilians who had been attracted to the place.

Into this group of eager, inquisitive Rebels I was, to their surprise, introduced as a "prisoner who wanted to join our army."

It may be surmised that I had, with as great eagerness as themselves, anxiously glanced among the faces, that were all turned towards us as we approached, to discover if among them were any whom I had ever seen before.

Providence, on this occasion at least, was not "on the side of the heaviest battalion," but with the solitary "refugee," who breathed a sigh of relief upon failing to discover one familiar face.

Unfortunately for my peace of mind, there were among the civilian visitors to these soldiers one of those pompous Virginian 'Squires of middle age who, though attired in a fancy grey uniform coat and civilian's pants and hat, was not, I was informed, really in their service. The patronizing manner peculiar to this class of gentlemen was, by reason of his age, indulged by the young officer in command, who permitted him to dictate, like a country 'squire, the manner in which the "culprit" should be disposed of.

It was arranged by my captors, through this meddlesome old 'Squire's influence, that I should be escorted to General Beauregard as a prisoner, leaving for him or his officers to decide upon the advisability of accepting my story and services.

The pompous old Virginia militia Colonel was merely gratifying his own selfish vanity by securing me as his prey, proposed to take me in his buggy direct to the General, whom he wished to communicate with personally.

"How is it that your companion in the uniform ran away on the approach of our troops?" said the old wind-bag, addressing me in a manner so haughty that I immediately resented it, and replied in a tone that some of the bystanders rather enjoyed:

"Oh, he was one of the Bull Run fellows; I am not responsible for him."