charged through
the town of Warrenton and a few confederate scouts coolly watched the
column from the neighboring hills. They were well mounted and evidently
did not fear capture. Indeed, no attempt was made to capture them, but
away rode Wyndham, as if riding for a wager, or to beat the record of
John Gilpin. He seemed bent on killing as many horses as possible, not
to mention the men. The fact was the newspapers were in the habit of
reporting that Colonel or General so-and-so had made a forced march of
so many miles in so many hours, and it is probable that "Sir Percy" was
in search of some more of that kind of cheap renown. It was a safe
pastime, harmless to the enemy and not dangerous to himself, though
hurtful to horse-flesh.

That night we camped beyond Warrenton and had the first taste of picket
duty. My troop was sent out about a mile beyond the camp and kept on
picket until morning. A line of videttes was posted along the front, and
so keenly did the officers feel the responsibility, that they made no
attempt to sleep but were in the saddle constantly. It would have been a
smart confederate who could have surprised the Michiganders that night.
Every faculty was on the alert. Often we fancied that an enemy was
approaching the line; a foe lurked behind every tree and bush; each
sound had an ominous meaning and the videttes were visited at frequent
intervals to see if they had discovered anything. In that way the night
passed. In the morning everybody was exhausted and, to make matters
worse, many of the men ran short of provisions. Some of them had
neglected to bring the amount ordered; others had been improvident and
wasted their rations. So to the discomforts of cold and wet, were added
the pangs of hunger. The little bag of coffee had proven a precious
boon. Whenever the column would halt for a few minutes, and it was
possible to find anything that would burn, a handful of the coffee was
put into a tin cup of water and boiled. It was surprising how quickly
this could be done, and the beverage thus brewed was "nectar fit for the
gods." When the flavor of that coffee, as it tasted on that trip more
than forty years ago, is recalled, it is with a smack of the lips. The
bare remembrance is more grateful to the palate than is the actual
enjoyment of the most delicate product of the culinary art today.

There were times early in the war when spirits were issued to the
soldiers as an army ration. Though personally