ay,
the head of the column filed to the left, on the road leading toward the
Blue Ridge, thus disclosing the fact that the Valley was to be given up
a prey to the enemy. Gloom was seen on every face at feeling that our
homes were forsaken. We carried our prisoners along, and a
miserable-looking set the poor Dunkards were, with their long beards and
solemn eyes. A little fun, though, we would have. Every mile or so, and
at every cross-road, a sign-post was stuck up, "Keezletown Road, 2
miles," and of every countryman or darky along the way some wag would
inquire the distance to Keezletown, and if he thought we could get there
before night.

By dawn next morning we were again on the march. I have recalled this
early dawn oftener, I am sure, than any other of my whole life. Our road
lay along the edge of a forest, occasionally winding in and out of it.
At the more open places we could see the Blue Ridge in the near
distance. During the night a slight shower had moistened the earth and
leaves, so that our steps, and even the wheels of the artillery, were
scarcely heard. Here and there on the roadside was the home of a
soldier, in which he had just passed probably his last night. I
distinctly recall now the sobs of a wife or mother as she moved about,
preparing a meal for her husband or son, and the thoughts it gave rise
to. Very possibly it helped also to remind us that we had left camp that
morning without any breakfast ourselves. At any rate, I told my friend,
Joe McAlpin, who was quite too modest a man to forage, and face a
strange family in quest of a meal, that if he would put himself in my
charge I would promise him a good breakfast.

In a few miles we reached McGaheysville, a quiet, comfortable little
village away off in the hills. The sun was now up, and now was the time
and this the place. A short distance up a cross-street I saw a
motherly-looking old lady standing at her gate, watching the passing
troops. Said I, "Mac, there's the place." We approached, and I announced
the object of our visit. She said, "Breakfast is just ready. Walk in,
sit down at the table, and make yourselves at home." A breakfast it
was--fresh eggs, white light biscuit and other toothsome articles. A man
of about forty-five years--a boarder--remarked, at the table, "The war
has not cost me the loss of an hour's sleep." The good mother said, with
a quavering tone of voice, "_I_ have sons in the army."

CHAPTER IV

SWIFT RUN GAP--RE