I stretched myself on the piece of tent, and tried to go to sleep. But it was no easy thing to settle down. The events of the day--the attack on our picket line, charging down the turnpike, exciting experiences at the rail fence, fighting on foot, charging across the plowed field, holding the enemy in check, falling back when flanked by the rebels, Sheridan's punishment of our pursuers--all crowded themselves to the front, and it seemed a year since we broke camp at Warrenton. I had never been in a pitched battle before, and I tried to remember the events in their order that I might be able to write them down as a basis for a letter to friends at home. The more I tried to straighten things out the more I got mixed. I dropped to sleep, but just as I was describing the battle to a group of villagers at Berlin, I was brought suddenly back to the front by a sergeant who was poking me with his saber scabbard. “Private Allen, turn out for picket.” “But I've only just turned in. There's my bunkey; can't you take him? he's already turned out after a good long nap--” “No back talk, out with you!” I was on my feet as soon as I awoke sufficiently to realize the situation. “Mount your horse, and report to Sergeant Murphy out there in the road. Is your cartridge box full?” “Yes, sir.” “Hundred rounds extra in your saddle-bags?” “Yes, sir.” “Mount at will, and go ahead.” Sergeant Murphy took charge of a detail from several companies. We rode down the road a few rods, and a staff officer then assumed command of the detachment. “We're to go out beyond the picket line and watch the movements of the rebels at daybreak,” the lieutenant informed Sergeant Murphy. In fifteen minutes we were at the last picket post out toward Todd's Tavern. “Detail a man to ride ahead, Sergeant,” the officer directed. I had ridden close up to the officer to hear all I could about the prospects of a fight, and the sergeant detailed me. “The object of keeping a man well to the front,” the officer said to the sergeant, “is to draw the enemy's fire should we run into the rebel pickets, and thus prevent the detachment from falling into an ambush.” “Very proper, sir,” assented the sergeant. “You will ride down the road, keeping a hundred yards or so from the head of the column,” the lieutenant said to me. “Load your carbine and keep it ready for use, but don't fire unless the enemy opens on you, for it is desired to secure a favorable position for watching the movements of the rebels as soon as it is light enough.” It was quite dark down there in the woods. I did not take kindly to the thought that I was to be used as a target for the rebel pickets. This riding to the front to draw the enemy's fire was a new experience to me. But I tried to comfort myself with the hope that we were so far out on the left that we would not encounter the Confederates. [Illustration: 0129]