I have often, often thought, in the years that have since passed, of that one terrible moment of my life. Here I was just emerging from one difficulty, resulting from my dual character as a spy, while I was in Richmond, and on the precipice of another greater danger directly in my path. A single word improperly spoken at that time would have condemned me to the scaffold in _less than_ twenty-four hours.

I felt for the moment that the fates were against me and determined to crush me at last. Realizing that the mere reopening of my difficulty with the Texas boys must now result in an investigation, and that would lead in the one direction, only to the gallows, I said nothing. Perhaps I was too much stunned for an instant to speak; but I have often thought that my flushed face was misinterpreted by those who must have seen it to indicate resentment at the coupling of my name in such a way.

My friend, the doctor, relieved my temporary embarrassment by speaking up for me, saying, in a laughable way that seemed to change the subject:

"Come on, let us get away from here, or somebody will swear they saw you some place else."

Thus relieved, I quietly suggested to the Captain that I had been wearing a gray uniform up in Virginia since I left Texas.

I was again temporarily out of danger and breathed a little freer, but became nervously anxious to get away, and hurried up the boys who were to accompany me into town.

While still talking to these officers, the younger one, to whom the Captain had addressed the inquiry as to the name of the Pensacola Spy, incidentally volunteered the information that their company, which was a part of the regiment, had been organized about Galveston in the early days of April and May, and, while waiting for the enlistment of the regiment's full quota, they had been ordered to New Orleans, and from thence were assigned to duty at Pensacola, Florida, and _were actually there about the time_ of my adventure to Fort Pickens.

I did not feel like pursuing the conversation much further in that direction. I quickly changed the subject, so as to make an impression on their minds that I had been in active service in Virginia right along.

This was not difficult, and I had the satisfaction of seeing that my gray uniform had been of service again. It saved my bacon that day, sure.

It seemed, in my nervousness, that the boys would never get ready to leave camp for town. When I learned the delay was caused by some disappointment about securing enough horses for all who wanted to go along, I urged with much earnestness that horses would only be an encumbrance--that we could easily walk and have more fun if not encumbered with their care. They abandoned them reluctantly, as a Texan thinks he can not go a square without a horse. We all started off at last, light-footed. There was not one of that crowd of hearty boys who walked out of that camp in the gloaming of that Sunday evening who suspected my true character. My heart was heavy enough as I walked along with them, brooding inwardly over the troubles which I saw must result from this Sunday visit; but my feet were light, and I verily believe that I could have double-quicked it all night in almost any direction that would lead me away from there.

I dared not take any of these boys to our Maryland Battery and introduce them to my friends there, who knew me as a different person. They were, for this time, only expecting to put in a night sky-larking in Richmond, but I knew very well the time would come--very soon, too--when I must expect a return visit from them. I realized, too, that in the meantime my old enemy, Davy Crockett, would keep stirring up the two boys who had been only temporarily put down; and if the Captain could hear of their story, and be made to believe that I was playing double with them, it would surely awaken his Pensacola recollections and direct his attention to me. So I did not want to see anybody from Texas any more.

In attempting two different characters on the one day, in Richmond, I ran a foolish risk, and had probably stirred up an investigation that would be fatal to me. This was about the situation of affairs on this Sunday evening, when I was actually reckless enough to risk again mixing myself up, by acting as a guide or cicerone to a party of Rebel soldiers about their own Capital at night for fun. Notwithstanding the previous encounters, I enjoyed the night off fully as much as any of the boys of the crowd.

I was somewhat heavy-hearted when we first left the Texas camp, but the hearty, joyous, unsuspecting behavior of the crowd had the effect of reassuring me, as it were; and seeing that they, at least, would stand by me in their own camp, I entered with them into the spirit of the fun in such a way that I am surprised at myself when I think of it now.

We walked into town over what is known as Church Hill, above Rockett's, on the road leading out to Seven Pines and Fair Oaks.

It was about dark when we reached the colored settlement in the outskirts, and, as we began the descent of the long hill (the same on which the colored troops first entered Richmond in 1865), we heard the church bells of the city. There is, in many souls like my own, a sympathy with sounds of this character. In our crowd was the doctor, an educated as well as a polished gentleman and scholar. When the tones reached his ear he stopped, lifted his hat reverently as he stood on the sidewalk, and recited in a manner that so impressed me that I shall never forget these words:

"Hist! When the church bell chime, 'Tis Angels music."

Some of the boys, inclined to poke fun at the doctor's seriousness, to which, in his absent-minded, thoughtful way, he responded: "Have you never been where bells have tolled to church?"

He continued in this serious strain, while the jangle of the bells lasted; and as he and I were walking side by side, he kept pouring into my ear the beautiful thoughts about church bells, home, and all its attendant happiness, that I began to feel quite homesick.

"Those evening bells, those evening bells, How many a tale their music tells Of youth, and home, and that sweet time, When last I heard their soothing chime."

The doctor suggested that we all go to church, but seeing that his recommendation did not meet with a very eager second, he amended it by adding the word "first," observing by way of explanation, that it would be a good way to put in the time for awhile. There were objections: one said he was an Episcopalian--their church did not have services at night; he was supported in this evasion by another who declared he was a Catholic. The doctor, appealing to me, asked if I were not an Episcopalian, too; I assented to it, when he mildly observed:

"I thought so; you and the other Episcopalian swear and lie alike so superbly."

Of course the boys wanted to get into some of the "society" of Richmond, and, as I had been there during the winter season, they expected me to introduce them.

I had entertained them about my experiences, which naturally aroused their curiosity, and excited their interest to learn more, and, perhaps, they desired to participate a little in the social enjoyments.

There was a great deal of society in Richmond in the winter of 1861, as I have said heretofore--people of all classes and all kinds were there in throngs, from every portion of the South, principally New Orleans, Baltimore, and other large cities. To my mind, unsophisticated as I was, there was but one--the beautiful little brunette, our Capitola--the Maryland slave.

I had talked to these fellows about Capitola so much that I was urged in the most seductive way to permit them to make her acquaintance, on my account. That sort of talk was all very nice, but it didn't have exactly the desired effect. I'd been fooled that way once before, twice before by being inveigled into introducing the Mississippi Lieutenant, who was anxious to see her on my account, and also who had cut me out entirely, on his own account. I didn't tell the Texas fellows this part of the story, though.

A spy who allows himself to get mixed up with a lady in his work, and loses his heart and parts with his judgment, is worse, decidedly worse, than one who loses his head with drink.

Personally, I wanted very much to call on Capitola, and would have been delighted with the excuse that was offered to present my friends, but for the fact that she knew me only as Mr. B----, while my friends called me Mr. A----.

In my eagerness to meet with her again, as I felt that now I must leave town, I was willing to take some risk. It was explained to the boys that I had assumed a fictitious name in my intercourse with Capitola, and, after giving them the blind, it was arranged that I should first see our enslaved beauty alone, and obtain her consent to present the Texans at her court that evening.

A soldier will risk a good deal for the sake of meeting his girl, as we all know. It was with the earnest desire to accomplish the purpose of seeing my girl--just once more--to say "Good-by" forever, that I was willing to meet another danger.

I saw Capitola alone, and nervously explained that a few of my Texan acquaintances, who had heard so much of her beauty and accomplishments, were clamorous for an opportunity to kneel at the feet of "Maryland." I did not attempt to say a word for myself, because it was understood that, since the Mississippi Lieutenant had been paying his addresses to her, we were, all of us, entirely out of the question. This disagreeable fact did not, however, prevent the handsome girl from entertaining me in a heartily cordial manner during my preliminary visit that evening in the interest of the other boys.

I could not say "Good-by," because, don't you see, I dare not tell anybody--not even my best girl--that I must go away; so I was denied even the poor satisfaction of a farewell with Capitola.

I do not remember whether I have said so before in this narrative, but, at the risk of a repetition, I will write down here what I believe to have been the truth--that Capitola was attracted more by the Mississippi Lieutenant's uniform and position than by his superior personal appearance. That she became convinced that the blue-eyed and light-haired Maryland Corporal of Artillery was the most devoted of her lovers, if not as handsome as many others, I have every reason to know.

It was pleasantly agreed that I should introduce to her my Texas friends. She, in her fascinating manner, considerately proposed to have with her one or two lady friends as her companions, who would help to pleasantly entertain my friends, the Texans, who were as she expressed it, "Thousands of miles from their homes."

While all these fascinating interviews were being held, I, like a love-sick boy, became wholly indifferent to the dangers and complications which I was rapidly bringing about myself.

I subsequently escorted my three friends around to Capitola's residence on ---- street--I can not give the name of the street. I know the location very well, however, from frequent visits. It was popularly known among us as "Poplar Grove," as it is the custom in Virginia to give names to residences. This was given to Capitola's house, because one solitary and sickly Poplar shade tree stood before it.

That we were pleasantly and cordially received by Capitola, goes without saying. She had, with bewitching taste and consideration, dressed herself for the occasion in her "Maryland, my Maryland," robes, as nearly as she consistently could, and, of course, she looked to my eye more beautiful than ever. Not to my eye alone, either, as I saw at once that our boys were most favorably impressed, not only with her appearance, but by the ease and cordiality of her manner, which served, in some mysterious way, to make everybody feel so much at home in her presence.

The doctor was particularly pleased--of all our crowd the most affable and gentlemanly and winning in conversation, being able to sustain himself creditably in any company, he was, of course, very soon at home, as we all found out to our sorrow. With him it was apparently a case of love at first sight--at least he tried to make Capitola think so. As I was out of the field myself, it was something of a gratification to me to see a prospect of some one of my friends being able to shove Lieutenant Claiborne off the stool. Some such thought as this was in my mind when, to my utter consternation, a black servant announced to Capitola that "Lieutenant Claiborne was at the door."

Jumping to my feet and rushing across the room to where Capitola was seated with the doctor, I begged her so earnestly not to admit Lieutenant Claiborne that I suppose I made myself ridiculous. She misunderstood my motive; but, with her quiet tact, she said to me, laughingly:

"Why, of course. I will arrange that your company shall not be interrupted."

She passed out to the hallway closing the door after her, while she held a consultation with some one, whom I knew to be my Lieutenant. If he had come into the room just then introductions would have ensued, and, of course, explanations must have followed; and, as I have so often said in these sketches, if there was any one thing that I desired to avoid more than another, it was any necessity for "explanations."

Capitola returned to the room, laughing heartily as the outside door closed with a bang, and saying to the doctor and the rest of us, as we rose to go: "Oh, no! seat yourselves and be at home here this evening."

There was not a word of reference to the visitor on her part until, in my eagerness, I found an opportunity to ask quietly if she had told Claiborne who we were.

"Why, yes; I merely told him some of your friends had called by a previously arranged agreement to spend the evening."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing at all, except that he would call later, and when I said that you would probably remain all the evening, he left me in a towering rage."

Then she added, laughing heartily as she spoke:

"Didn't you hear him slam the door?"

I was safe for a little while longer, and, without caring what the next hour would develop, we proceeded to enjoy ourselves as freely as if we had nothing else to do, and not a fear to trouble us.

How long we remained with Capitola and her one friend is not material.

When we were ready to leave this pleasant society, it was discovered by some one that it was then too late to get home to camp, unless by running the gauntlet of the city guard and patrol, who lifted everybody's pass after a certain hour.

This annoyance was fully compensated for by the sympathy which the ladies expressed for us. When we were, after a good many failures, at last ready to say a final "Good-night," all were made happy by pressing invitations to call again.