At the headquarters of the regiment, or picket guard, I had encountered, I was cross-examined by every officer who could get a chance to stick a question at me. To all I had the same story, with renewed emphasis each time, that there was no Rebel army between Fredericksburg and Richmond.

The detention at so many of these subordinate headquarters, or the halting at so many stages of our return, to answer these same stereotyped questions, began to annoy me. I had been scouting for hours without a moment's rest; my nerves were all unstrung, now that I had gotten safely back. I wanted to go to the real headquarters, and tell all I knew to the General, and then go to Mrs. Wells' house to see Geno and rest for the balance of my life. I was tired, hungry, nervous and irritable, which accounts for the unfortunate fact that I became at last resentful and, perhaps, insulting, to some of the higher officers about the headquarters and staff, who questioned my statements.

[Illustration: ON A SCOUT TO RICHMOND.]

General McDowell was not present; he had been sent to Washington, or to the Shenandoah Valley I think, so that those in command had no authority, as I knew, and I felt in my nervous condition that they had insulted me by daring to doubt my story.

While yet smarting under this disagreeable reception of my report, I sat down and sent Mr. Covode a dispatch, over the military wire, giving him in brief the results of my recent observations, and asserting positively that the army could go to McClellan if they wanted to. Those are not the words of the dispatch, but it was in substance the same story that I had told, with the addition of some bitter comments. I did not stop to think at the time that such a dispatch could pass through the War Department Telegraph Office, and be subject to that censorship. My only object was to hasten the information to headquarters through Covode, because I realized that the officers of our own army would not act upon it.

I did not know then, neither did General McClellan, or anybody else in the armies, that Secretary Stanton had sometime previously positively ordered General McDowell _not_ to reinforce McClellan.

My dispatch was unintentionally a criticism on the Secretary of War; and, coming as it did, in this outside and unofficial way, to Covode, whose committee were investigating these things, it no doubt put me in bad shape before the Secretary of War.

Undoubtedly, Major Eckert, who was then the official in charge of the telegraph office, but who in reality acted as a messenger to carry private news to the ear of the Secretary, gladly availed himself of the opportunity to place me in a bad light before the Secretary.

As I had previously made several visits to Washington and Baltimore while sojourning with the family, my short absence of one day and two nights was not noticed.

I may be permitted to say, parenthetically, that Miss Mamie Wells, the second daughter, had gone to her sister's home in Baltimore under my charge a few days previous to this. Her war history, I venture to say here, would present one of the most attractive yet written.

She was, during the bombardment and battles, a Florence Nightingale to both sides; and to her parents and family, in the subsequent terrible sufferings consequent upon their exposed position between the two armies, became a heroine in deed and in truth.

My personal acquaintance with this remarkable young lady was confined to the few days of 1862. The incident which is best remembered occurred while riding up the Potomac from Aquia Creek as her escort, _en route_ to Baltimore. In reply to something that I had said on the subject that was uppermost in my heart, she took occasion to say to me in a kind, sisterly way about Geno, that produced a lasting effect upon me: "You must not trifle with that child."

That I was sincere and very much in earnest she soon discovered, because, from her charming manner, I was impelled to tell her right there much more of my love for her sister than I had told Geno herself.

Her smiling approval, when I mentioned my ambition to make Geno an officer's wife, was: "You love like a boy, but I believe you would fight like a man."

Miss Sue was of an entirely different disposition. She was a born coquette, and flirting was natural to her. Her eyes were hazel, and, if I may be permitted to offer my advice to the sons of veterans, it is, don't attempt to flirt with a pair of hazel eyes, because it is a waste of time and dangerous. Perhaps they are less susceptible than black or blue, but once trifled with, or neglected, they do not pine away in grief, but rally for revenge and take it out in scorn.

I never made love to Miss Sue that I remember, after having met Geno; but she evidently felt that I was her legitimate game, simply because she was the oldest daughter. In fact, she told me plainly that Geno was entirely too young to be spending so much time with strange young gentlemen.

Naturally enough, I resented her advice, and talked to Geno about it, but my little girl only laughed sweetly at my earnestness, and not once, that I can recall, said a single word in reply that reflected on her elder sister's judgment. Geno's voice was mild, her method of speaking slow, with a charmingly hesitating manner, that made everything she said, or left unsaid, impressive.

The father being absent in exile, Miss Sue prevailed upon the mother to allow her to "manage this affair," as she haughtily termed it. We were being restricted somewhat arbitrarily by Miss Sue's management, and, to get around it, I had recourse to smuggling little notes to Geno through her little brother George and sister Jennie.

I recall now, with a laugh, with what slyness and caution Geno managed this little secret service of ours. There were not any ciphers used, but Geno had away of inserting quotations in French in her notes that embarrassed me, because I couldn't interpret them myself, and, of course, dare not appeal to any one else.

One day we all came to grief by Miss Sue getting hold of one of my notes to Geno, in which I impulsively intimated that the animus or motive of Sue's opposition was based on the fact that she desired all the attention bestowed on herself. That was a very indiscreet thing to put on a piece of paper; but, as I have said before, I think, I was twenty and Geno was sixteen.

Entering the parlor one afternoon, I found both the sisters sobbing and crying as if their hearts were breaking over some sudden intelligence of a dreadful character. I hurriedly asked if their father had been caught.

But, to my eager interest, Sue replied through her tears by taking me to task about this note. I tried to explain, but she did all the talking for an hour, and I got no chance to say a word, until she said something about Geno being too young to take care of herself, when I blurted out: "Geno is better able to take care of herself than you are, and I know it."

That was putting my foot into it deeper than ever.

It took me a week to get this affair straightened out, and I verily believe the words uttered so thoughtlessly at this moment were treasured up against me in wrath by Miss Sue for twenty years, though she pretended to "make up," and I kissed both of the sisters that time before we broke up the conference or love-feast.

There remains in existence to-day a neatly-written, faded letter addressed to "The friend of an hour," which my sister Ruthie has preserved. The smart, sharp, stinging words of this letter have served as a model for more than one communication under similar circumstances.

There was this peculiarity about the Wells family: they were all loyal and true to each other, and to their parents. More than one outsider has learned to their sorrow--touch one, and all of them were touched.

As serving to indicate this, and to show the innocence and purity of Geno, I will relate at my own expense an incident.

Shortly after the Captain and father had "escaped" through my connivance, Geno, in her sweet, hesitating voice, said to me, in reply to something I had been saying or doing: "Father said to me, as he bid me good-by: 'Geno, look out for Mr. O. K.'"

I was stunned. Perhaps I was presuming too far on my being solid with the family, and, in my usual impulsive way, I earnestly resented the Captain's caution, probably because I realized that he was right, and said something harsh in reply. Geno looked up into my face in a surprised way, while she defended her father. I shall never forget the words and the manner in which they were uttered: "Why, father knows best. I would not have him angry with me for anything."

It was a lesson to me. I was angry at the moment, but I loved her all the more for this evidence of loyalty to her parents.

It may be worth while to add a word of advice to the boys and girls who may read this. The good and faithful daughter always makes a good wife.

Don't forget it, boys and girls.

To pick up the tangled love-knot in the thread of this narrative, I will say during the pleasant evening spent with the Wells family, I was so happy and contented that I became wholly oblivious to everything that was going on in the army outside. It was late the next day when I walked down to the railroad office as usual, to see if there was any news for me. It was then that I received the note of warning from my brother Spencer, which had come during my absence, a reference to which has been made further back in this narrative.

While in or around this office or station, about which were always congregated a great crowd of officers and soldiers off duty, as well as sutlers, newsboys, etc., I was pleasantly approached by General McCallum, who had charge of all the military railroads, as the successor of Colonel Thos. A. Scott, and who, after talking agreeably about some of the work I had previously undertaken, told me in his gruff way: "Railroad and telegraph employes have been required by the Secretary of War to take the oath of allegiance. All have signed but you, and I have left a blank in the office for your signature."

I was an employe, and as such was perfectly willing to sign all the oaths they required, and expressed my willingness to comply at once. I found a written blank form had been prepared for me in the office. I signed it without thinking it necessary to read. When handing the paper back to the clerk, he remarked jocularly: "They have made you sign a mighty tight paper, haven't they?"

It was only when my curiosity was aroused by this remark that I thought of reading over the form of the oath. I think it was what was known in the year after as the cow-catcher bond or iron-clad oath. It was purposely made strong enough to catch any supposed case of disloyalty.

It contained one simple clause that at the time seemed to perplex me a little. It read in substance: "I have never belonged to any organization, or borne arms against the Government of the United States, voluntarily or involuntarily."

I could not conscientiously or truthfully swear to that. I was willing enough to do almost anything to get around the ugly point, that seemed like a rock in my path, without being forced to explain that I had voluntarily united with the rebel army, and involuntarily borne arms against the Government. I dreaded very much putting my name to a paper which could in any event be brought up against me as a proof that I was "a perjurer."

I was loyal to the core, as everybody who has read this must know; but I had--I may say voluntarily--united myself with the Third Battalion of Rebel Maryland Artillery. To be sure, I was forced by the necessities of my peculiar work and the situation during my sickness in Richmond, as well as prompted by a desire to further and better aid the United States Government, to do this; but the stubborn fact was--I had taken their oath and I had in reality borne Rebel arms. I had not told anyone in Fredericksburg about this, and none of the railroad employes knew anything of my former experiences. Perhaps Geno had my confidence, but none of the family ever received any intimation from her of my true character. To them all I was, as Sue put it, "A nice little fellow from Pennsylvania, and that's all we know."

I saw at the first glance of this new oath that I was in a tight place; and, in a moment of hasty impulse, prompted solely by a desire to be truthful and honorable to myself, I scratched my name from the paper.

Without a word of explanation to the astonished clerk, I took it to Gen.

McCallum, and, in a few words, explained my action, and desired him to try and find some way out of the trouble for me. He had understood in a general way something of my experiences, and when I told him my action, he agreed with me, and said that it was right and honorable in me to protect my name. Further, on his return to Washington the day following, he said he would report the matter to the Secretary of War, and asked that I be permitted to remain in the service without being compelled to sign that iron-clad paper.

I thought then that the matter was settled, and in the evening went home from my office, to pass another--only one more--of the enjoyable, happy nights, in the company of the ladies.

In the meantime the leaven I had sent to Washington previously, in the shape of a telegram to Covode, had begun to work; so that when General McCallum got back to Washington City the next day, and reported my case to the Assistant Secretaries, P. H. Watson and General Eckert, these two officials put their wise heads together, and with only the evidence in their possession, which was additionally overbalanced by General Eckert's former prejudice, they came to the hasty conclusion, without giving me a chance to be heard, that "I was a very dangerous man," and so reported their conclusion to Mr. Stanton, whose attention was at the same time called to my reports to Covode.

The telegrapher at Fredericksburg at that time, was a Mr. Gentry, of Kentucky, a clever gentleman, as all Kentuckians are that I have ever met.

That afternoon, while lounging in the cool parlor with Geno and Miss Sue, I was called to the door by a visit from Mr. Gentry, who politely informed me that he had an intimation from my brother and friends in Washington that I would get into trouble unless I signed that oath. Mr.

Gentry very kindly advised me, to use his own words, which made such a lasting impression on me that I have not forgotten them: "Now, don't you be carried away by infatuation for this pretty little girl; act sensibly for the present; why, I'd sign anything, and I'm from Kentucky."

He was very courteous, and I felt that he had been sent after me, and if there is any one thing that I abhor it is being "led" or coddled. He knew nothing of my reasons for declining the oath, and when he desired a reply from me to telegraph back to Washington, I merely said: "Just tell them I won't do it. They will understand that."

"But," Mr. Gentry interposed, "the Secretary of War sends this word--that you must do it."

"Well, I won't do it for the Secretary of War or anybody else."

"What shall I tell him?"

"Tell him to go to ----."

"No," laughed Gentry, "I wouldn't like to do that."