My impression then was that Stoneman was too much of a regular of the old school to disobey an order, even if he knew it would result in great good to his cause.

Whether there was such an order from headquarters can perhaps be established from the records--

That one could have gone into Richmond was freely admitted by the general officer in command.

We returned to our old camps at Fredericksburg again. In this way I hovered about that ill-fated Fredericksburg during all that winter, and until the movement to Gettysburg, without once having an opportunity to get into the town, though our troops had been there. It was my luck to have been absent at the time. For some unfathomable reason, the fates were against me every time.

I shall never do this subject justice until I write a novel, giving the entire story.

Fredericksburg during all these days presented, from our side, a gloomy, deserted appearance. There were always a few Confederate sentries on duty, which we could see on the streets. At the river crossing, or ferry, an occasional flag-of-truce boat would be rowed over, but on these occasions the General Staff-officers conducted the courtesies. Men and orderlies were invariably placed to prevent any but the two officers interested from getting a word with the Confederates.

Right here I will remark that I've witnessed innumerable flag-of-truce exchanges, but I do not recall a single instance in which a bottle was not passed around as a preliminary to the business in hand. I presume the custom originated from the Indians smoking the pipe of peace.

One funny remark on an occasion of this sort remains in my memory. An enlisted man near me, seeing a Rebel taking a long pull at the flask of Union commissary, which our officer presented with a supercilious bow, said: "Well, I'm ---- if this is not getting to be too much of a civil war." He probably felt disgusted because he did not have an opportunity at the flask.

One day I was startled by the sounds of artillery, and an accompaniment, which, to me, resembled more than anything I can compare it with, a whole lot of carpenters tearing down a frame house. One would have thought there was a man with a hatchet, pounding sharply on every board, as if they were having a contest among themselves to see who could hit the fastest.

I rode hurriedly down to the river, below town, to see what it was all about. In those days, I never stopped to ask anybody's advice or consent, but followed my own impulses and inclinations. I passed some General officers and Staff on a hill-side near the batteries that were firing, who had their glasses pointed in the direction of the hammering.

When I got to the river, as close as my horse could go without jumping down the steep bank, I saw, to my surprise, that from all along the rifle-pits that lined the top of the bank on the Rebel side was a line of white smoke--indeed, the smoke almost concealed the rifle-pits.

It was from behind this bank of foggy smoke that all the hammering noises came. It was caused by the sounds of hundreds and hundreds of rifle-shots "at will," but in such rapid succession that it resembled, as I have said, innumerable hammers on a frame house.

My horse could not get me close enough to see down to the edge of the water on our side, and I was about to dismount and get closer, when I saw coming up the steep road, that had been cut in the bank, a procession that took the blood out of my heart. There were two men dragging (not carrying) a dead soldier, while a closer glance showed all along the side of that steep bank dozens of others, either dead or dying.

It was the Engineer Corps of the Army of the Potomac that were down there behind that bank trying to lay a pontoon bridge over the Rappahannock.

The artillery "support" had no more effect in quieting that incessant hammering than if their shots had been fired into the air.

I stood there for a while, absolutely paralyzed, at a distance not much greater than the width of a street, watching those Rebels bob up all along that rifle-pit, puff out the white smoke, and their heads go down behind the long line of yellow clay out of sight, all along the line.

I have often since wondered that one of those fellows did not pick me off my horse, as I sat there an absurdly-conspicuous mark.

If they had not been so busy watching those who were trying to lay that pontoon, they would undoubtedly have dropped me. My position on the horse would naturally be taken for that of an officer. I assert here that more desperate or more heroic service has never been performed than by those of our Engineer Corps in their laying of pontoons in the face of the enemy's fire from rifle-pits.

It seemed to me, on a closer inspection of the work that day, that they carried out a dead man for every plank they laid on the pontoons. When it is remembered that these men necessarily work _en masse_, and that almost every shot from an enemy must hit something, it will be seen how much exposed to deadly fire the quiet Engineer Corps become. In the charges on rifle-pits or forts, or on an enemy's line, there is always something of the excitement of a rush or hurrah that impels men forward with loaded guns and pointed bayonets in their hands; but, in laying pontoons over a river in the face of the enemy, a courage and nerve are required that, to my notion, is far beyond the ordinary.

I often wonder that some of the accomplished Engineer officers do not give this matter their attention in the histories of the war that every other branch of the service is showering upon the land.

These men, supported by the artillery and a few infantry, succeeded at last in getting so many boats launched that the Rebels concluded it was time to quit bothering them any longer, when, all at once, every Rebel popped from behind his rifle-pits, took to his heels and ran for dear life across the plain toward the hills. Of course, our artillery opened upon them at a lively rate. In spite of the fact that the dead and wounded were thick around me, I yelled with as much fun and delight as I have since at baseball games to see a man make a home-run.

Not a single Johnny dropped, though they threw their guns away to lighten them in the race for the home-run.

This occurred some distance below Fredericksburg, and as there did not seem to me to be any intended movement of troops over the pontoons, which had been laid at such a terrible sacrifice of life, I rode off to the upper fords near the Lacey House, expecting to get over there. I was told, on reaching headquarters, that this was simply a "diversion," to detain, or ascertain if the enemy were still in our front.

Great Scott! what a disappointment to me. What a terrible thing is war, that will permit, as a simple diversion, the murdering in cold blood of hundreds of men without intending to profit by their work at all.

The services of a single reliable Spy, or Scout, would have accomplished more than all of this diversion. That evening the Staff moved off and I went along. I did not know then where we were going. I supposed, as did everyone else, that it was to be another battle somewhere near Fredericksburg. It never occurred to my mind then, that, in riding away from the Lacey House that June evening, I should never see it again.

I do not suppose a dozen persons outside of General Lee's staff, imagined we were going to ride home to Pennsylvania--to Gettysburg.

That's where we went. And, before leaving Fredericksburg, I wanted to say a few words of farewell to Geno.

There are one or two old, old songs, which have always remained such particular favorites with me that my friends have learned to expect me to call for them, in season or out of season.

I mention them now for the benefit of the sons and daughters of veterans, and the other friends, young and old, who have followed the "boy" in his love-making under the great difficulties that a war develops.

They are beautiful songs besides and the words and melody more clearly define the romance than my pen could describe.

I have already detailed the experiences with Geno, who so gracefully handled a guitar in her beautifully-formed bare arms, as she skillfully played an accompaniment to "Juanita." It was that old, old song and "them" eyes that put me in Old Capitol Prison.

I would advise any of the young lady readers, with black hair and pretty eyes, to get a guitar and practice "Juanita" on the boys. It will bring them down every time.

Another old favorite is "Evangeline," which so fully expresses my sentiments on the past.

Surely, there never was a sweeter and more appropriate love song than my "Lost Evangeline." While the song of separation is the sweetly familiar "In the Gloaming."

Another beautiful air and words is entitled "Someday"--strikingly expressive of future hopes. This I heard sung first in the parlor of a hotel in the far, far West, when I was traveling in California, where it had the effect of making me homesick.

Since the close of the war, I have wandered all over the land, like Gabriel in search of his Evangeline. I was shipwrecked on the Pacific Ocean at the mouth of the Columbia River, in the extreme Northwest. I sailed up the Columbia River with some such feelings as an explorer must experience on discovering a new continent. I visited the eternally snow-capped Mount Hood, rode around Puget Sound to British Columbia, went over the Cascades and The Dalles, in Oregon, to the western slope of the Rocky Mountains in Montana, thence over miles of wild mountain roads in Oregon and California on stage coaches, where Indians and stage-robbers thrive. I have lived in San Francisco, spent part of a winter in Los Angeles, lived among the Mormons in Utah for six months; in truth, I have been everywhere, but I have not yet found a trace of the long-lost Geno. While I have not exactly been searching for Geno on these travels, I have never given up the hope of some day seeing her, and as long as I live I never shall.

I don't know how it may be with Geno; it is likely she has a good husband--better than I would have been--and that she is devoted to him and her family; but, in my secret heart, I hope the old saying will prove true, that a woman never forgets her first love, and that some day, in some unseen manner, Geno may read this and see that I have not forgotten her. This has been to my life only a sweet memory, which I shall cherish fondly as such to the end. "Her bright smile haunts me still."

"Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; Oh, death in life! the days that are no more."

After leaving Falmouth, the headquarters of Cavalry corps were quartered in an old house somewhere convenient to the railroad and telegraph wires that run into Alexandria. It was probably close by the Sixth Corps'

position, as General Sedgwick occupied the same house with his Staff, and as their horses were tied about the fences.

One little incident will serve to locate me. General Pleasonton was then the Chief of Cavalry, to whose General Staff I was afterward attached.

He also occupied rooms in this same building. Late one night a message was brought in to me to deliver to the General. The building we were in had been apparently deserted by the family. I was told by some of the officers that I'd find General Pleasonton in his room up stairs. I went tramping up the uncarpeted steps, with my big cavalry boots and spurs rattling and resounding through the great empty hall in the "wee sma'

hours," so that I awakened Colonel Blake, who was wrapped up in his blanket trying to sleep on the hall floor. The old Colonel gave me a terrific blast from his bugle mouth, which awakened every officer in the house. Some one crawling from under another blanket pointed to General Pleasonton's room, which I entered unceremoniously, glad enough to get any place out of sound of the old Colonel's voice.

I found General Pleasonton, by the aid of the commissary candle I carried for a lantern, lying asleep on an ambulance stretcher. At the head of his couch stood an empty cracker-box, on which was the remnant of his student lamp--about an inch of candle--along side of which were two derringer pistols.

Probably because I was nervous or rattled, by the fuss I had raised in the hall outside, I abruptly awakened the General, at the same moment stooping down to light his candle with mine. The General must have been having a nightmare. The moment I spoke he started up, grabbed for his pistols, and scared me so badly that I dropped the candle on the floor, leaving us in the dark, retreating to the door, as I said: "Don't shoot; it's me." After another "blessing" for my midnight endeavor to deliver a message, I got the matter straightened out.

I was telling General Pleasonton of this incident recently, which he recalled in his usual pleasant manner, though he insists that he never carried a pistol during the entire war.

General Pleasonton was certainly one of the most courteous, gentlemanly General officers in the Army of the Potomac.

It was my privilege and pleasure to be near his person a great deal up to Gettysburg, and I cannot recall a single instance of his using harsh or ungentlemanly language toward his associates. Indeed, the General had more the appearance and manner of a Presbyterian minister than of a dashing cavalryman. During the war, he wore his full beard closely trimmed, going about the camps in his quiet, easy way, like a chaplain.

It was Custer, and Kilpatrick, and Gregg, who possessed the dashing, dare-devil style. Buford, like Pleasonton, was an old Regular, and went about among his troops as if the war was a business that could not be hurried.

I saw General Pleasonton angry one day at a matter that seemed so trifling that all the Staff enjoyed the affair. His servant, or hostler, who took care of his blooded riding horse, had been regularly supplied by the General with a little cash, to be used in keeping a supply of loaf or lump sugar on hand. It was the General's habit before mounting to receive from his hostler a lump of the sugar, which he fed himself to his horse. It is said, you know, that the feeding of a lump of sugar to a horse regularly has an effect similar to love powders, and creates a peculiar attachment of the horse to the feeder of the sugar.

On this occasion, either the contraband had spent the sugar allowance for "commissary," or some one desired to play a trick on the General by substituting some lumps of drugs from the hospital steward's chest for the sugar. The horse found out the deceit and kicked on it, and investigation showed the General that he had been trifled with, and he was very mad about it.

It is probably true that General Pleasonton, as the Chief of Cavalry, will be held responsible for not having obtained information of General Lee's escape from Fredericksburg. I have talked with General Pleasonton as recently as the summer of 1887 on this subject, but his explanation would make an interesting chapter in itself and does not pertain to this narrative of facts.