234 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Sept. 17, 1904. 
A Story of the Second Bull Run. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Two armies made up of the tropps of the regular army- 
are about to hold a mimic war over exactly the same 
ground on which two real armies held a real one forty-two 
years ago this month. One of these armies will be com- 
manded by General Bell, the other one by General Fred. 
D. Grant. 
By the way, in passing, General Grant is an old ac- 
quaintance of mine. He and I both at one time belonged 
to the same troop, F of the Fourth Cavalry. He was sent 
to it when he left West Point as its second lieutenant. 
As soon as he came to us he wanted very much to hunt 
buffalo. We took him out and found him all the buffalo 
he wanted, and left a lot of them just where we found 
them that neither he or we wanted. But that has nothing 
to do with this story. 
In September, 1862, Generals Pope and Lee faced each 
other on the same ground that this mimic battle is to be 
fought over, and fought a real battle there that lasted 
part of three days. This was the second battle of Bull 
Run, or Manassas, as it is generally called. 
Late in the afternoon of the third day, Stonewall Jack- 
son undertook to turn our left, and came within an inch 
of doing it, too ; but Sykes' regulars and our division — the 
Pennsylvania Reserve, "Governor Curtin's Regulars" — 
were sent to the left on the double quick. Then we 
charged, and Jackson quit for supper. It was supper time, 
anyhow. Had Jackson succeeded in what he had tried to 
do, this second Bull Run would have been a repetition of 
the first. He would have driven us into Washington 
again. This is a matter of history. 
When we made that charge, I went a little too far, and 
not getting back quick enough, stayed there. They took 
me prisoner. I and about a dozen others who had been 
taken in at the same time that I was, were sent to the rear 
under a guard of cavalry with a sergeant in charge of it. 
We were marched back for a mile or more; then came 
to a creek that had steep banks thickly covered with 
bushes on our side of it. The cavalry tried to cross it in 
several places, and finding that they could not, at last the 
sergeant told us to cross here and wait for him ; he would 
cross up above, he said, where his artillery had crossed 
in coming in here. 
I crossed, but did not wait for him. I did not want his 
escort any longer. Just as I had forced my way through 
the bushes after crossing, I found a man close to my 
elbow; he and I were the only two here; the rest had 
crossed up above us. 
"Let us get out of this," I said to him; "I don't want to 
go to Richmond." 
He did not either; but he did not know which way to 
go, he said. 
"I do," I told him. "Come on." After looking up the 
creek to see if that cavalry had crossed yet, and not seeing 
them, we started off down the creek on a run, but keep- 
ing in close to the brush. I had not gone far before I was 
halted. "Halt there, you Yanks, and come back here!" 
"Go to hades and stay there !" I answered, but kept on 
running. 
A whole volley was fired at us, but none of the shots 
came near. 
"Get across the creek," I told my partner, "they cannot 
cross here after us." And crowding in through these 
bushes again we got across to the side we had started 
from, then kept on down the creek, still close to it. I did 
not want to get out into the open ground. There were 
several parties of Confederate troops in sight, but all 
some distance off vet. There was danger of the cavalry 
riding down on the other side and firing through the 
bushes at us; but they would have to fire by guess; they 
could not see us, sc I took the lesser risk. We kept on 
down the creek for over a mile, then I called a halt. It 
was getting dark, but the moon would soc.i be up. "What 
kind of a scout are you ?" I asked my partner. He said 
he had never done any scouting. ...... 
"Then stop here while I do some now. The Confeds 
must have a picket out here now somewhere; I want to 
find just where. We don't want to run on top of it." 
I kept on across, going more carefully than we had 
been going. That picket line should be close, I thought ; 
but after going a few hundred yards further and not see- 
ing any signs of it, I stopped and began to examine the 
country as well as the light would permit. Off to my left, 
and in the rear of where I was now, was what I took to be 
a low hill, and I thought I saw houses on it. Stooping 
down I looked along the sky-line, and now saw that there 
were several mounted men on the hill; but they seemed 
to be at rest — an outpost, probably. I had got through 
their lines without knowing it. 
I had told my partner when leaving him that if I did 
not find the picket , I would whistle, then he could come 
on ; but I was afraid to do any whistling here ; those 
men might hear me. So I went all the way back, and 
both of us started on again, and went nearly another 
mile, still close to the creek. Then I stopped again. The 
creek was now running south; if I followed it I might 
get inside of their lines again before I knew it; # so I 
struck off to my left, leaving the creek behind. I wanted 
to get out on the battlefield and find out just where I was. 
Less than another mile brought us out on the field at 
about the place we had made that charge a few hours 
ago. Neither of us had a gun; they had been taken from 
us; but there were plenty of them here. I picked up a 
Springfield rifle and its cartridge-box which some 
wounded man had dropped, and loaded the rifle, and felt 
safer. Then going on I soon came to another gun that 
I wanted more than the Springfield. It was a Sharps 
rifle that had been dropped by a man out of our brigade; 
and now I knew just where I was. These Sharps were 
carried by the "Bucktails," or Kane Rifles, who were our 
sharpshooters. I took the Sharps and gave my partner 
the Springfield. I turned this rifle in afterwards to the 
company that it belonged to; they hated to lose one of 
these guns. 
Keeping on now, I soon met our stretcher bearers, who 
were looking for the wounded, and art officer with them 
told me just where to look for my regiment, which had 
been sent out on picket. I had been going straight away 
from it, but I turned in the right direction and soon was 
halted with the challenge of "Who comes there?" 
"Friend without the countersign," I answered. 
"What regiment do you belong to?" 
"The Eighth Reserve." 
"Well, it is right here. Come on in." 
' I walked in and found the whole regiment lying in line 
j ust behind the pickets, and hunted up the colors ; our 
company was one of the two color companies. 
"Where have you been all night?" asked the lieutenant 
in command. - 
. "Over across the line. I had an invitation to take sup- 
per with Stonewall Jackson, but his supper was not ready 
when I got there, and so I did not wait." 
"Well,T have you marked killed, Johnny." 
"Then mark it off. I am not killed — only half scared to 
death this time. But they sent enough shots at me to- 
night to kill half a dozen men had they been hits." 
My partner was still with me. I had him lie down there 
until next morning, then he hunted up his own Iowa 
regiment. 
As it afterward turned out, I had all this running for 
nothing. Had I stayed where I was, I would have been 
let walk home next day ; for while we were on the retreat 
to Washington, and just below Fairfax Court House, the 
prisoners who had been taken when I was joined us. 
They had been paroled on the field. One of them told me 
that the sergeant had reported that two of us had tried to 
escape, but that he had shot us both. 
I was not in his company long enough to get his name; 
but if he is still living and should see this, it may serve to 
inform him that it was the moon he shot, and not ns. 
In the summer of 1887 I attended the G. A. R. en- 
campment at St. Louis, and stayed there a week seeing 
the city, though I had seen it often before, and one after- 
noon while walking down Broadway, a man wearing the 
Grand Army button ran up to me and seizing my hand 
called me by name. I did not know him from a crow, and 
said so. 
"Well," he said, laughing, "just go down there a few 
hundred yards and see if you can see anything of that 
Reb picket line, then give a whistle and I'll come on." 
I knew now who he was, and hunting up a beer saloon 
(they are not hard to find in St. Louis), we sat in there 
for the next hour comparing notes. 
He was a farmer out near Cedar Bluff, Iowa, and asked 
me to go home with him and stop all winter. I did not 
go. Had I taken advantage of all these invitations I 
have been given at one time or another, I might have 
put in half of my time in visiting. 
I once rode my horse about 150 miles in twenty-two 
hours to hunt up a doctor to cut off a cowboy's arm after 
he had tried to blow it off with a shotgun, dragging the 
gun by the muzzle. When he was cured and ready to 
go home, he wanted me to go with him to the Ozark 
Mountains in Arkansas, but I could not get away. 
Again, an old planter down in Texas wanted me to stop 
a year with him; he could not get his negroes to work 
unless I was around; I had them scared half to death, 
telling them I would put them in jail down in town. I 
was acting deputy sheriff then. Cabia Blanco. 
An* Ideal Vacation. 
There were four of us. We were chums, and we had 
arranged to spend our vacation on Charleston Lake, a 
picturesque little body of water nestling among the hills, 
about twenty miles beyond the Canadian border. 
One of our number was private secretary for a Wall 
street banker; another was an officer in an electric com- 
pany, a third was a prominent young lawyer, the fourth 
(the writer) a reporter on the staff of a daily paper. 
Uncle Russell, Edison, Judge, and Greeley, repectively, 
were the pseudonyms which we had long familiarly ap- 
plied to ourselves. We agreed that we would recognize 
none other during our outing. 
The Judge had been at Charleston Lake, and he became 
so eloquent over its attractions that we readily adopted 
his suggestion to spend two weeks camping upon its 
islands or along its rock-bound shore. 
Our first view of the majestic St. Lawrence as we 
stepped from the train at Morristown, a sleepy little 
village, was impressive. We had read of its vastness, but 
we had been unwilling to admit that it could possibly sur- 
pass our noble Hudson, either in extent or grandeur. In 
a few moments the superiority of the latter had faded 
away, like a fog before a gale. We looked across the 
wide expanse of deep blue to the Canadian shore rising 
green and indistinct in the distance ; we turned our gaze 
&) 
in a southwesterly direction, and the horizon of our 
vision was again shut off by a vista of foliage. 
"Is there a bend in the river just above here?" I in- 
quired of a man at work upon the wharf. 
"Nope," he indifferently replied, as he stooped to con- 
tinue his work. "Thousand Islands," he grunted, in evi- 
dent disgust because of my ignorance. 
"The Armstrong," Edison observed, as we stepped 
aboard the ferry. It was a combination car, freight, cat- 
ttej and passenger steamer. 
"See that boy over there?" It was Uncle Russell who 
spoke. "I overheard him ask his father if this is the boat 
that went to the bottom of the river a few years ago." 
We were interested. We looked over the guard rail at 
the blue water surging around the vessel's hull as she 
plowed her way toward Brockville on the Canadian shore. 
"We would drown in there as quickly as in the restless, 
dirty brown water at Coney," Edison remarked. 
"Why don't you inquire about the diving ability of this 
boat, Greeley?" observed the Judge, turning to me. 
"Hi, there, Cap !" I called to the only member of the 
crew in sight. "It has been reported that this boat made 
a peculiar and unexpected trip to the bottom of the river 
a few years ago." 
"Humph !" the sailor replied. "She went down in one 
hundred feet of water, if that's what you want to know." 
"What caused her to sink?" the Judge asked, before I 
could frame a question. 
"Dunno," he replied. "Never was explained. She just 
sank about two hundred feet from Brockville dock. 
When raised and pumped out, her hull was sound and 
port-holes closed." 
"I hope she will not take another such freak while we 
are on board," Uncle Russell nervously observed. 
As we crossed the gang-plank, a dirty, ragged, uncouth 
tramp attracted our attention. He carried a red carpet 
bag, faded and much worn. 
"Go on," the Custom House officer said to him, with a 
wave of his arm. Possibly he was afraid of vermin. The 
tramp had every appearance of being very much alive. 
When he had shuffled himself a few yards away, the 
official apparently relented. At least he called him to re- 
turn. The tramp complied, with evident reluctance. 
When the carpet bag was opened we were unable to 
restrain an exclamation of astonishment. It was filled 
with jewelry. He was a professional smuggler in 
disguise. 
Our way was by train to Athens, the nearest station to 
our vacation Mecca. We saw a very antiquated looking 
engine and train of two cars when we arrived at the 
station. If the number of letters upon a locomotive ten- 
der would constitute an important railway line, then the 
road over which we were about to travel would be one of 
the most important on the continent. "B. W. & S. S. M. 
R. R.," we read in unison. A boy was seated on the plat- 
form near-by munching peanuts. "What do those letters 
stand for?" Uncle Russell asked him. 
"Brockville, Westport, and Seldom See Money," the 
youth promptly replied. 
Later on we learned the name of the road from our 
tickets. The engine was old and weatherbeaten ; the 
sheet iron covering over the boiler was disfigured with 
numerous indentations, which bore silent testimony to 
the battering and exposure it had endured during its 
many years of service. The smoke-stack was crowned by 
a mammoth hood about four feet in diameter. The ten- 
der contained about two cords of wood. No coal could 
be seen. Our trip was eventful. The road abounded in 
curves and other eccentricities. Edison sarcastically 
remarked : 
Its builders avoided every big tree that stood in the 
way. It was cheaper to build around them than to cut 
them down." 
Ballast was as scarce as snow in August on a Nevada 
desert. We were becoming accustomed to the rolling and 
lurching of the car, when the train suddenly stopped. 
Pushing our heads through the open windows, we saw 
the train crew, assisted by some of the passengers, rapidly 
replenishing the supply of fuel from a wood-pile. We 
had got comfortably settled again, when a screech of the 
whistle, followed by a grinding of the brakes, convinced 
us something had gone wrong. We hastened to the plat- 
form. "What's the matter, Cap?" I asked the brakeman. 
"Rails spread?" "Hot box?" "Cow on the track?" 
"Wash out?" the others asked simultaneously. 
The brakeman made no reply. We followed him down 
the steps to the ground. When he turned his eyes to the 
rear of the train we did likewise. We saw a man running 
away from the train as though a band of Apache Indians 
were close upon his trail. 
"Somebody run over?" I inquired. 
"Naw," a passenger said, "his hat blew off." 
We looked at each other in silent amazement. Very 
accommodating road, we thought. 
"Is he the President of this country or the owner of the 
road?" the Judge asked the passenger, who was evidently 
willing to be communicative. 
"Why, he is the editor of the Athen's Reporter," the 
passenger responded. "Have you never heard of Bethnel 
Loverin? They stopped the train last week at a crossing 
a little further out here while, the newsboy sold a cigar 
to a farmer who was hoeing corn in a field near-by." 
We were obliged to remain in Athens over night, or 
hire a wagon to transfer us to our destination. We chose 
the former. There had been an election that day, and in 
