In the gray light of the morning I discovered that I was opposite an island of considerable length, separated from the mainland by a narrow and shallow channel, which I promptly waded.  The island was low and flat, covered with an almost impenetrable cane-brake interlaced with vines.  Working my way through these to the other side, I obtained another look at God’s country—­Shermany, so to speak.  There were no visible inhabitants.  The forest and the water met.  This did not deter me.  For the chill of the water I had no further care, and laying off my boots and outer clothing I prepared to swim.  A strange thing now occurred—­more accurately, a familiar thing occurred at a strange moment.  A black cloud seemed to pass before my eyes—­the water, the trees, the sky, all vanished in a profound darkness.  I heard the roaring of a great cataract, felt the earth sinking from beneath my feet.  Then I heard and felt no more.

At the battle of Kennesaw Mountain in the previous June I had been badly wounded in the head, and for three months was incapacitated for service.  In truth, I had done no actual duty since, being then, as for many years afterward, subject to fits of fainting, sometimes without assignable immediate cause, but mostly when suffering from exposure, excitement or excessive fatigue.  This combination of them all had broken me down—­most opportunely, it would seem.

When I regained my consciousness the sun was high.  I was still giddy and half blind.  To have taken to the water would have been madness; I must have a raft.  Exploring my island, I found a pen of slender logs:  an old structure without roof or rafters, built for what purpose I do not know.  Several of these logs I managed with patient toil to detach and convey to the water, where I floated them, lashing them together with vines.  Just before sunset my raft was complete and freighted with my outer clothing, boots and pistol.  Having shipped the last article, I returned into the brake, seeking something from which to improvise a paddle.  While peering about I heard a sharp metallic click—­the cocking of a rifle!  I was a prisoner.

The history of this great disaster to the Union arms is brief and simple.  A Confederate “home guard,” hearing something going on upon the island, rode across, concealed his horse and still-hunted me.  And, reader, when you are “held up” in the same way may it be by as fine a fellow.  He not only spared my life, but even overlooked a feeble and ungrateful after-attempt upon his own (the particulars of which I shall not relate), merely exacting my word of honor that I would not again try to escape while in his custody.  Escape!  I could not have escaped a new-born babe.