On Sunday morning, the twenty-first, having engaged James Grayden and his team, I set out with the Chaplain and the Philanthropist for Keedysville.  Our track lay through the South Mountain Gap and led us first to the town of Boonsborough, where, it will be remembered, Colonel Dwight had been brought after the battle.  We saw the positions occupied in the Battle of South Mountain, and many traces of the conflict.  In one situation a group of young trees was marked with shot, hardly one having escaped.  As we walked by the side of the wagon, the Philanthropist left us for a while and climbed a hill, where along the line of a fence he found traces of the most desperate fighting.  A ride of some three hours brought us to Boonsborough, where I roused the unfortunate army-surgeon who had charge of the hospitals, and who was trying to get a little sleep after his fatigues and watchings.  He bore this cross very creditably, and helped me to explore all places where my soldier might be lying among the crowds of wounded.  After the useless search, I resumed my journey, fortified with a note of introduction to Dr. Letterman, also with a bale of oakum which I was to carry to that gentleman, this substance being employed as a substitute for lint.  We were obliged also to procure a pass to Keedysville from the Provost-Marshal of Boonsborough.  As we came near the place, we learned that General McClellan’s headquarters had been removed from this village some miles farther to the front.

On entering the small settlement of Keedysville, a familiar face and figure blocked the way, like one of Bunyan’s giants.  The tall form and benevolent countenance, set off by long, flowing hair, belonged to the excellent Mayor Frank B. Fay, of Chelsea, who, like my Philanthropist, only still more promptly, had come to succor the wounded of the great battle.  It was wonderful to see how his single personality pervaded this torpid little village; he seemed to be the centre of all its activities.  All my questions he answered clearly and decisively, as one who knew everything that was going on in the place.  But the one question I had come five hundred miles to ask,—­Where is Captain H.?—­he could not answer.  There were some thousands of wounded in the place, he told me, scattered about everywhere.  It would be a long job to hunt up my Captain; the only way would be to go to every house and ask for him.  Just then, a medical officer came up.

“Do you know anything of Captain H., of the Massachusetts Twentieth?”

“Oh, yes; he is staying in that house.  I saw him there, doing very well.”

A chorus of hallelujahs arose in my soul, but I kept them to myself.  Now, then, for our twice-wounded volunteer, our young centurion whose double-barred shoulder-straps we have never yet looked upon.  Let us observe the proprieties, however; no swelling upward of the mother,—­no hysterica passio,—­we do not like scenes.  A calm salutation,—­then swallow and bold hard.  That is about the programme.