Their invitation was so cordial, and I was being urged with such earnestness to join them, that I could see at once that they did not suspect my true character. It was evident that neither of them had heard of my Fort Pickens affair.

The one difficulty I saw before me in renewing this Texas acquaintance was, that I should have to represent in Richmond two different characters, under the two different names. I might be able to keep up this dual character if the two crowds were distinct or separated, but there was, of course, a great risk in this.

I did not, under any circumstances, want to become known by the name in Richmond by which I had been so widely published as the Pensacola Spy.

All the Rebel detective force, which was made up principally of Baltimore police and detectives imported by General Winder, had undoubtedly been furnished with instructions to look after spies, and perhaps I had been specially honored by their notice as being the first on record during the war.

But I could not well resist the demand to accompany these two Texas boys out to their camp; and when they suggested that I _must_ see my old friends from Texas, and seemed to take it as an affront that I should hesitate, there seemed to be no way out of it--especially as they had proposed furnishing me a horse to return to my own camp in the evening.

I reluctantly started to walk out to their camp, talking familiarly and cordially on the way, as they did about their delight at finding me on the "right" side. I could not entertain the thought that these honest-hearted Texan youths, who had never before been so far from home, were capable of any trick--they were sincerely glad to see me. I felt instinctively that they were old friends and neighbors of my Texas uncle, who did not suspect me of being a Yankee Spy.

The road to the camp of the Texans led in the direction of Seven Pines (or Fair Oaks), where Johnston attacked McClellan's left in the following May, and the camp itself was not far from that point.

As we tramped along a pleasant chat was kept up, and though I was on the alert to hear if any suspicion attached to me for the Fort Pickens matter, nothing was said to indicate that either one had ever heard of the affair. They were, undoubtedly, sincere in their cordiality, and only desired to gratify their companions in camp with their success in having found one whom they all knew, so far away from their Texas homes.

In the talk, I gathered that one company in their regiment came from the neighborhood in which my uncle lived, and was composed principally of the very set of young fellows with whom I had been associated there only the previous winter. They gave me the names of a good many of the boys, and amused me with the accounts of the journey they had made from Texas to Virginia in search of the war. The fact of my having an uncle in the South would of itself have been sufficient indorsement for my "loyalty"

with most of these fellows, but I recalled to myself that, while amongst them in Texas, I had got into trouble several times by my outspoken Northern sentiments during the Presidential campaign, which was then going on. The doctor probably referred to this when he congratulated me so heartily on having found me on the right side.

We finally reached the camp. I was marched up to the company quarters, and was generally recognized by the boys, who were as sincerely glad to see me as if I was just from their home. I was at home among them--everything was all right there, and I enjoyed renewing the friendship of a year previous. Among the boys was one fellow, to whom I referred in the introduction of this story, as having a difficulty with--the grandson of David Crockett, the hero of the Alamo. Young Crockett, like most of his class, had been taught to presume a little on the glory of his ancestors. This had made him somewhat personally disagreeable to his associates; but he kept away from me that day.

I remained in camp until after dress parade. It was a regiment of as fine a looking set of truly American men and boys as I have ever seen in either army. Their war record, as the Texas Rangers, will bear me out in this opinion. Their Colonel was afterward the famous General John B.

Hood.

I was urged to stay for camp dinner. The boys, with whom I had so often before been in camps in Texas, while "rounding up" their stock, were all well up to the use of the camp-kettles and pots, and, with the advantages of the city close by them, they were able to get up in good style, first-class shape, one of the good old-style Western Texas dinners. We were having a good time all around. I was being urged to get a release from my Maryland Battery and join the Texas Brigade.

I saw that I could not very well keep up this dual character, the very cordiality of these fellows would lead to their visiting me up in the Maryland Battery, and, once there, things would become badly mixed up. I would never be able to explain to these Maryland fellows that I was in reality another fellow altogether, and it would cause some confusion in the Texas camp to have to explain the other way to my Texas friends.

These thoughts, however, detracted but little from the pleasure of my visit, for, as I felt that somehow or other I would get out of the difficulty, I did not concern myself for a moment.

It was a mistake to have accompanied the Texans to their camp. It was, to say the least, when there, very indiscreet to place myself on exhibition among the hundreds of other spectators who were grouped in front of the Texas regiment while they were having their Sunday dress parade.

In the society of the earnest and cordial Texas acquaintances whom I had found--or who had found me--I had wholly overlooked the little circumstance that had occurred during the night at the theater, when, it will be remembered, I had been pleasantly approached after the dismissal by a couple of Confederates who said they had met me in Texas the preceding winter. I was then that evening in the company of the Colonel, who knew me only as a Marylander, and by an entirely different name than that by which the Texans addressed me, and it will be remembered that I then declined to be recognized as ----, and had, perhaps, rather curtly repelled their courteous advances.

As I sat at camp dinner on an improvised bench in front of the tent with my friends, with consternation I saw approaching me the very chap whom I had snubbed in the vestibule of the theater. The appearance of this tall fellow at the time, in his gray clothes, had about such an effect on me at the dinner table in that company in broad daylight as a ghost might produce when alone somewhere near midnight. He had his staring eyes fixed right on me. There was no mistaking it.

My dangerous predicament rushed to my mind at once. Luckily for me, perhaps, we were all seated at the table, so the fellow had politeness enough not to intrude himself upon the crowd, but walked on past us keeping his eye searchingly, and I felt sternly, fixed on me. I lost my appetite, which a moment previously was ravenous, and, as soon as I could decently do so, meekly suggested that, as I had a long way to go, I'd better leave them at once.

"O, no; we are going to escort you back to your camp on a horse, as we agreed to do."

That was very kind, of course, but if there was any one thing that I did not want to happen just then, was any farther attention to be paid to their guest. I declined the proffered kindness with so much earnestness that it might have had the effect of quieting the matter had not one of the fellows observed:

"Well, I'm going to town to-night anyway, and you can wait awhile and ride that far."

I have no doubt that the conversation between myself and the Texas Confederates that evening (in the light of subsequent events), would be interesting to any of them yet living who may see this narrative, and if I were able to put it down here in detail it might also be interesting to the ordinary reader.

I remember all that occurred during the half hour that followed the dinner hour. Could I forget that banquet?

While my newly-found old friends were arranging among themselves a programme to spend the evening in Richmond with me as their guide, my searching glances detected that my tall theatre acquaintance had gathered a group of half a dozen of his comrades around himself, and, as I imagined, he was earnestly explaining to them his experience with me at the theatre door.

Of course, I must have imagined the worst; who would not have done so under the same conditions? He probably did not suspect my true character at all, and was, perhaps, only entertaining his associates with an account of what he, no doubt, termed the shabby treatment that I had accorded him, as compared with what he was witnessing in my intercourse with the other boys. It had, however, another dangerous effect of calling the attention of a great many of the regiment to their visiting comrade in gray--the Maryland refugee--who was, by a stretch of the imagination, almost as far from home as were the Texans, because, as they said, in their sympathetic way, when speaking of their absence and distance from home:

"We can get home if we have occasion to go, but you cannot, because, you live in a foreign country that's at war with us, you know."

While talking together, the doctor came up to the group of which I was the center, and remarked in a half-quizzical way, his face wearing a smiling expression:

"Say, Blank, Jim Haws says he met you one night at the theatre, and you wouldn't speak to him."

Right here I made another mistake that day, by denying that I had refused to speak to any one.

"That's what I told him, but he swears that he and Bill Williams both saw you there."

I realized that I had again put my foot into it; but, I suppose, on the principle that a lie well stuck to will answer for the truth, I deliberately thrust myself deeper into the mire by insisting that I had not met any one at the theatre. This was satisfactory to the friends near me, who had become somewhat interested in the talk, and it all might have passed off without any further questioning or investigation if my former enemy, Davy Crockett, Jr., had not meddled with the affair.

He had, as it subsequently appeared, been volunteering his sympathies and comments unfavorable to me to the two comrades whose story of the "insult" at the theatre had reached him. Of course, the motive that prompted young Crockett was simply a desire to get even with me, for presuming to promptly accept a challenge from him while in Texas to fight a duel.

As I have said, the one thing that I most desired just at that time was to get away from that crowd. If this intention had not been so fixed in my mind, or if I had at all thought of being delayed, perhaps I should have conducted myself with more discretion, and not have committed the blunder of denying a matter that would so soon and so surely react on me and endanger my life.

When we were about ready to leave the camp, and as I was flattering myself that once out of sight I should be out of mind, and have another opportunity to get away, I was confronted by the identical Jim Haws, who had brought to our part of the camp "a few friends," among whom was Billy Williams. In a voice trembling with suppressed rage, he said, looking savagely at me:

"Didn't you see me at the theater the other night?"

I have before stated, not with egotism, but as an explanation for some of my statements, that it is or has been one of my good points to always have been able to meet a sudden danger coolly, while at the same time I confess that I would tremble with apprehension and fear if I were anticipating or expecting the same danger.

Looking him straight in the eye--for I was _riled_ by his savage manner--I answered, resentfully and boldly:

"I don't know whether I did or not. I've seen so many fellows like you around town that I've not minded them much."

For the moment my defiant manner served to give me the advantage, and the fellow was so badly stumped that he couldn't answer at once, but turning to his friend and companion, Williams, whom he had brought along as a witness to prove to the boys that he was right in his assertion of my having insulted him, he said:

"Bill, ain't he the fellow?"

Whether it was a disposition on the part of Bill to prevent any outbreak (a crowd was collecting), he mildly answered:

"Well, it looks mighty much like him, but you know we might be mistaken," and, turning to me, said, politely:

"My friend felt sure you were the man we met that night, but, as I had never seen you at home, and it was so dark and crowded there, I can't be certain myself."

At this stage, while I had become too much excited to talk coolly, my friends stepped in and interfered in my behalf, and Bill and Jim walked off with their friends, the latter muttering threats of vengeance.

The little ruffle on the surface, which looked like a "difficulty" on this quiet Sunday evening, created quite a commotion about the quarters.

All know how quickly a fight will gather a crowd in camp, and how soon the officers become aware of it.

The serious part of this threatened fight was in the fact, that it served to call general attention to me individually--would bring to the scene not only the officer of the day, but other officers of the regiment, who had been attracted by the gathering crowd.

[Illustration: "BILL, AIN'T HE THE FELLOW?"]

Explanations followed freely in our own crowd, to the effect that it was a case of mistaken identity, which was generally accepted good-naturedly. The fact that I was a visitor, and a friend of some of the best men in the regiment, who were ready to vouch for me (as the "Nephew of my Uncle")--had been inhospitably or ungenerously treated by any of their men while a guest--had the effect on these good, generous-hearted boys of completely turning the tide of feeling to sympathy for me. In the general exchange of courtesies, which resulted from the officers coming down to see us, it so happened that I was introduced to a Captain Somebody, who, not hearing distinctly, had asked for my name a second time, and on my repeating it with some little pride on my uncle's account, he said, turning to his companion, who was also an officer:

"Why, isn't that the name of the Yankee Spy that was at Pensacola?"