They seemed to be very mild, inoffensive
fellows. They kept a looking over toward the Rebel lines, and would
dodge if a twig cracked under their feet. I walked on as if I was just
relieved, and had passed their lines, when I turned back, and says I,
"Captain, what guard is this?" He answered, "Nien bocht, you bet,"
is what I understood him to say. "What regiment are you from?" "Ben
bicht mir ein riefel fab bien." "What regiment is your detail from?"
"Iet du mein got Donnermetter stefel switzer." I had to give it up--
I had run across the detail of a Dutch regiment. I passed on, and came
to the regular line of breastworks, and there was an old Irishman sitting
on a stump grinding coffee. "General McCook's brigade, be jabbers,"
he answered to my inquiry as to what regiment it was. Right in front of
me the line was full of Irish soldiers, and they were cooking supper.
I finally got over their breastworks, and was fearful I would run into
some camp or headquarter guard, and the countersign would be demanded of
me. I did not know what to do in that case--but I thought of the way
that I had gotten in hundreds of times before in our army, when I wanted
to slip the guard, and that was to get a gun, go to some cross street or
conspicuous place, halt the officer, and get the countersign.
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