I had orders to allow no one to pass. In fact, no one was expected to
pass at this point, but while standing at my post, a horseman rode up
behind me. I halted him, and told him to go down to the main picket on
the road and pass, but he seemed so smiling that I thought he knew me,
or had a good joke to tell me. He advanced up, and pulling a piece of
paper out of his pocket, handed it to me to read. It was an order from
General Leonidas Polk to allow the bearer to pass. I read it, and looked
up to hand it back to him, when I discovered that he had a pistol cocked
and leveled in my face, and says he, "Drop that gun; you are my prisoner."
I saw there was no use in fooling about it. I knew if I resisted he
would shoot me, and I thought then that he was about to perform that
detestable operation. I dropped the gun.
I did not wish to spend my winter in a Northern prison, and what was
worse, I would be called a deserter from my post of duty.
The Yankee picket lines were not a half mile off. I was perfectly
willing to let the spy go on his way rejoicing--for such he was--but he
wanted to capture a Rebel.
And I had made up my mind to think likewise. There I was, a prisoner
sure, and no mistake about it.
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