only wriggled through the bushes a few yards in that direction before sinking to my knees in mud and water, and being compelled to crawl back.  There was nothing left except to circle the fire in the opposite direction, and come out on the road below.  I must have used up a good quarter of an hour getting through.  Twice I made missteps, and some racket, but there was no challenge.  I emerged at the opening of a small ravine, where I could lie down flat behind a low rock, and look back up the road, which ran down hill.  I felt reasonably certain Billie would have to come this way if he intended to cross the river at Carter’s Ford, and I knew of no other place he could cross this side the big bridge.  The aide would be riding with him, of course, and that would make me certain of my man when he came, although how I was ever going to manage was more than I had as yet figured out.

I must have been there some twenty minutes, maybe more, burrowing down into the mud under the lee of the stone, staring straight up the hill at the fire.  The post was relieved while I lay there, the fellows going off duty tramping past so close I could have touched them.  I could still hear the tread of their feet when one of the new guard yelled out “Halt!” and I saw two or three men spring up from around the fire, while the corporal in command ran out into the middle of the road.  Some sort of a rig was coming down the hill, with a cavalry officer—­judging from his cape—­riding along close beside it.  I was not able to see very plainly the way the light fell, but the contrivance looked to me like one of those old-fashioned, two-wheeled carryalls, with a low top over it, and drawn by a horse not much bigger than a pony.  The officer dug in his spurs and got ahead, leaning over to whisper to the corporal, who stepped back saluting.  The carryall never stopped at all, the pony trotting along unconcernedly, and it was so dark beneath the top I could not see sign of anybody.  It was a queer-looking outfit, but I had no doubt this would be Billie, and the despatches.

The officer was still riding ahead when they passed me, his cape blown up over his hat, and his head bent forward to make out the road, as though his eyes still remained blinded by the firelight.  Without definite plan, yet firmly determined not to be left behind, I squirmed across the road, ran up close to the carryall, and caught hold at the rear.  The soldiers back in the glare saw nothing, while the mingled noise of hoofs and wheels left me unheard.  I discovered my fingers grasping some narrow wooden slats, held up firmly against the back of the vehicle by a chain at each end.  For a moment, running and hanging on as I was in total darkness, I was unable to figure out what sort of an arrangement this could possibly be.  Then I managed to feel it out with one hand—­it was simply a shelf, capable of being lowered the length of the supporting chains, on which packages, or baggage, might be carried, while above was a roll of canvas,