At last we issued from the damp woods, two miles below the railroad junction.  Here was an extensive farm.  Our vanguard had halted and borrowed a few rails to make fires.  These were, of course, carefully paid for at their proprietor’s own price.  The fires were bright in the gray dawn.  About them the whole regiment was now halted.  The men tumbled down to catch forty winks.  Some, who were hungrier for food than sleep, went off foraging among the farm-houses.  They returned with appetizing legends of hot breakfasts in hospitable abodes, or scanty fare given grudgingly in hostile ones.  All meals, however, were paid for.

Here, as at other halts below, the country-people came up to talk to us.  The traitors could easily be distinguished by their insolence disguised as obsequiousness.  The loyal men were still timid, but more hopeful at last.  All were very lavish with the monosyllable, Sir.  It was an odd coincidence, that the vanguard, halting off at a farm in the morning, found it deserted for the moment by its tenants, and protected only by an engraved portrait of our (former) Colonel Duryea, serenely smiling over the mantel-piece.

From this point, the railroad was pretty much all gone.  But we were warmed and refreshed by a nap and a bite, and besides had daylight and open country.

We put our guns on their own wheels, all dropped into ranks as if on parade, and marched the last two miles to the station.  We still had no certain information.  Until we actually saw the train awaiting us, and the Washington companies, who had come down to escort us, drawn up, we did not know whether our Uncle Sam was still a resident of the capital.

We packed into the train, and rolled away to Washington.

WASHINGTON.

We marched up to the White House, showed ourselves to the President, made our bow to him as our host, and then marched up to the Capitol, our grand lodgings.

There we are now, quartered in the Representatives Chamber.

And here I must hastily end this first sketch of the Great Defence.  May it continue to be as firm and faithful as it is this day!

I have scribbled my story with a thousand men stirring about me.  If any of my sentences miss their aim, accuse my comrades and the bewilderment of this martial crowd.  For here are four or five thousand others on the same business as ourselves, and drums are beating, guns are clanking, companies are tramping, all the while.  Our friends of the Eighth, Massachusetts are quartered under the dome, and cheer us whenever we pass.

Desks marked John Covode, John Cochran, and Anson Burlingame, have allowed me to use them as I wrote.

ARMY-HYMN.

  “Old Hundred.”

  O Lord of Hosts!  Almighty King! 
  Behold the sacrifice we bring! 
  To every arm Thy strength impart,
  Thy spirit shed through every heart!