"Here, sir," I answered in some surprise.
"You are requested to report to General Jackson at once."
"At Winchester, sir?"
"No; his headquarters for tonight are at Coulter's farm, on the dirt pike. You will ride your own horse."
I endeavored to circle the others, and thus reach the door in time to ask further questions, but was too late; the lieutenant, his message delivered, had already disappeared in the darkness. I stared after him in perplexity. What could Jackson possibly want of me? On whose recommendation had I been thus singled out for special service? How, indeed, had the commanding general even learned my name? I stood hesitating in the open door, listening to the hoof beats of the officer's horse, my mind filled with wonderment. But I was a soldier, thoroughly disciplined, and orders must be obeyed. The pause, the doubt, were but momentary. Five minutes later I was guiding my own horse down the same dark road, bending low in the saddle, obsessed with a feeling that this mission, whatever it might turn out to be, promised a change in my fortunes.
It was an ugly path, rutted deep by artillery wheels, and dangerous for the horse. On either side glowed the blaze of camp fires, and the sound of
