e
inevitable retreat might be utilized in sounding a ford or determining
the point of intersection of two roads.

In some of the dark corners of England and Wales they have an immemorial
custom of "beating the bounds" of the parish. On a certain day of the
year the whole population turns out and travels in procession from one
landmark to another on the boundary line. At the most important points
lads are soundly beaten with rods to make them remember the place in
after life. They become authorities. Our frequent engagements with the
Confederate outposts, patrols, and scouting parties had, incidentally,
the same educating value; they fixed in my memory a vivid and apparently
imperishable picture of the locality--a picture serving instead of
accurate field notes, which, indeed, it was not always convenient to
take, with carbines cracking, sabers clashing, and horses plunging all
about. These spirited encounters were observations entered in red.

One morning as I set out at the head of my escort on an expedition of
more than the usual hazard Lieutenant Thurston rode up alongside and
asked if I had any objection to his accompanying me, the colonel
commanding having given him permission.

"None whatever," I replied rather gruffly; "but in what capacity will
you go? You are not a topographical engineer, and Captain Burling
commands my escort."

"I will go as a spectator," he said. Removing his sword-belt and taking
the pistols from his holsters he handed them to his servant, who took
them back to headquarters. I realized the brutality of my remark, but
not clearly seeing my way to an apology, said nothing.

That afternoon we encountered a whole regiment of the enemy's cavalry in
line and a field-piece that dominated a straight mile of the turnpike by
which we had approached. My escort fought deployed in the woods on both
sides, but Thurston remained in the center of the road, which at
intervals of a few seconds was swept by gusts of grape and canister that
tore the air wide open as they passed. He had dropped the rein on the
neck of his horse and sat bolt upright in the saddle, with folded arms.
Soon he was down, his horse torn to pieces. From the side of the road,
my pencil and field book idle, my duty forgotten, I watched him slowly
disengaging himself from the wreck and rising. At that instant, the
cannon having ceased firing, a burly Confederate trooper on a spirited
horse dashed like a thunderbolt down the road with