He thought a moment. Then he called a cavalryman from the outpost.

"Britton," he said, "show this gentleman in to General Dana's
headquarters."

Crenshaw lashed his horse and away we went. "That boy thinks he is a guide,
not a guard," said he. "You are all right. We can easily get rid of him."

This proved true. We stopped by a saloon and bought a bottle of whisky.
When we reached headquarters the lad said, "Do you gentlemen want me any
more?" We did not. Then we gave him the bottle of whisky and he disappeared
round the corner. "Now you are safe," said Crenshaw. "Make tracks."

But as I turned away and out of sight I began to consider the situation.
Suppose that picket on the outpost reported to the provost marshal general
that he had passed a relative of Mrs. Dana? What then? Provost guard.
Drumhead court-martial. Shot at daylight. It seemed best to play out the
hand as I had dealt it. After all, I could make a case if I faced it out.

The guard at the door refused me access to General Dana. Driven by a nearby
hackman to the General's residence, and, boldly asking for Mrs. Dana, I
was more successful. I introduced myself as a teacher of music seeking
to return to my friends in the North, working in a word about the old
Washington days, not forgetting "Charley" and "Mamie." The dear little
woman was heartily responsive. Both were there, including a pretty girl
from Philadelphia, and she called them down. "Here is your old friend,
Henry Waterman," she joyfully exclaimed. Then guests began to arrive. It
was a reception evening. My hope fell. Some one would surely recognize me.
Presently a gentleman entered, and Mrs. Dana said: "Colonel Meehan, this is