It was not a very exciting life to which the boys of our regiment were introduced on their arrival at Budd’s Ferry, though the rebel batteries at Shipping Point made a great deal of noise and smoke at times.  As the season advanced the weather began to grow colder, and the soldiers were called to a new experience in military life; but as they were gradually inured to the diminishing temperature, the hardship was less severe than those who gather around their northern fireside may be disposed to imagine.  Tom continued to be a philosopher, which was better than an extra blanket; and he got along very well.

It was a dark, cold, and windy night, in December, when Tom found himself doing picket duty near the mouth of Chickamoxon Creek.  Nobody supposed that any rebel sympathizer would be mad enough to attempt the passage of the river on such a night as that, for the Potomac looked alive with the angry waves that beat upon its broad bosom.  Hapgood and Fred Pemberton were with him, and the party did the best they could to keep themselves comfortable, and at the same time discharge the duty assigned to them.

“Here, lads,” said old Hapgood, who, closely muffled in his great-coat, was walking up and down the bank of the creek to keep the blood warm in his veins.

“What is it, Hapgood?” demanded Fred, who was coiled up on the lee side of a tree, to protect him from the cold blast that swept down the creek.

“Hush!” said Hapgood.  “Don’t make a noise; there’s a boat coming.  Down! down!  Don’t let them see you.”

Tom and Fred crawled upon the ground to the verge of the creek, and placed themselves by the side of the veteran.

“I don’t see any boat,” said Tom.

“I can see her plain enough, with my old eyes.  Look up the creek.”

“Ay, ay!  I see her.”

“So do I,” added Fred.  “What shall we do?”

“Stop her, of course.” replied Tom.

“That’s easy enough said, but not so easily done.  We had better send word up to the battery, and let them open upon her,” suggested Fred.

“Open upon the man in the moon!” replied Tom, contemptuously.  “Don’t you see she is under sail, and driving down like sixty?  We must board her!”

Tom spoke in an emphatic whisper, and pointed to a small boat, which lay upon the shore.  The craft approaching was a small schooner apparently about five tons burden.  The secessionists of Baltimore or elsewhere had chosen this dark and tempestuous night to send over a mail and such supplies as could not be obtained, for love or money, on the other side of the Potomac.  Of course, they expected to run the risk of a few shots from the Union pickets on the river; but on such a night, and in such a sea, there was very little danger of their hitting the mark.

Up the creek the water was comparatively smooth; but the little schooner was driving furiously down the stream, with the wind on her quarter, and the chances of making a safe and profitable run to the rebel line, those on board, no doubt, believed were all in their favor.