Page:The Overland Monthly Volume 5 Issue 3.djvu/6



welcomed, for the sake of the additional heat it gave. The dayended. We had seen but one man, (a Negro) and he at a great distance; had heard but very distant sounds of wagoners and laborers at their work; the night had closed in again: we were still free, strong, and hopeful. Emerging from the woods, the march was resumed on our north-east course.

When but fairly clear of the woods, there arose before our eyes, all horrible in the gloom, a line of earth-works. In the fancied security of our thicket, we had been lounging within pistol - shot of the fortifications of the city.

Turning back was absurd; to the right or left, equally so, as the forts and riflepits were of interminable extent; while to go on seemed madness: but we went on, trusting that Fortune would be kind. No click of musket-lock—no challenge of sentinel —and we gained the parapet, to find the works deserted and silent as the grave. Before us now stretched the open country, cleared, evidently, for military purposes; for, even in our haste, we could but admire the selection of ground for a defensive line, and congratulate ourselves that we had as yet been spared the unpleasant duty of assaulting works of such character.

In the distance, a belt of woods, but dimly seen, indicated the line of the Chickahominy River.

As it was deemed of the highest importance to place this stream between ourselves and our pursuers, we made all speed for the bank, giving a suspicious picket-fire a wide berth. Surely, it was a wild place. Countless freshets had left unsightly scars upon the face of Nature there. Parasites, like long beards, swung wildly from the bare and blasted branches of the trees. Vegetation seemed to be killed forever; and in its place was the slime of the river, clinging to the steep banks and decaying logs, rendering our footing any thing but

sure. Add to this the weird light of a waning moon—the screeching of owls —the haunting memories of the army's disastrous campaign, a year or more before, upon the banks of the same river— bridging, fording, swimming it, in triumph and in defeat—our laudable desire to cross the black, sluggish water —and, worse than all, not even the ghost of a bridge —and some idea may be formed of our situation and condition of mind.

Matters were certainly not in the most hopeful state. This river, which had almost cost the nation an army, seemed now about to bring to naught the halfexecuted plans of a small party of four, when a subdued shout from the Captain announced a discovery of some kind.

Forgive me, O Captain! if in this short story you find recorded some of your failings. We took you in the night, under protest, and we kept you twelve long nights and longer days on the same terms. If we used you as a common safety-valve, through which all our wrath and disappointment were expended, you certainly took our ill-nature as a matter of course, and gained your liberty in consequence; and the service you rendered in the Chickahominy swamp shall never be forgotten.

Ferreting about on the bank of the stream, the Captain had found a bridge. Not wonderful for its architectural design; but a bridge that could bear us bravely and dry-shod over the current. It was a tree of mighty size, so felled, by some skilled hand, as to span the river. Once across, we plunged into the swamp beyond, to encounter new obstructions and trials—this time not actually discouraging, but decidedly painful. Fortunately, the footing was quite firm and dry, on account of both low water and cold weather; but the briers! the briers! they scratched our faces, lacerated our hands, and tore our clothes. When, breathless, stinging, but triumphant, the party gained the higher land, all report