General Smith, a Vermonter by birth, a West-Pointer by education, was a soldier from spur to crown. In the demoralization which existed at the Chain Bridge, in his opinion, the occasional execution of a soldier would tend to enforce discipline, and in the end promote economy of life. He had issued orders declaring the penalty of death for military offences, among others that of a sentinel sleeping upon his post. His orders were made to be obeyed. Scott was, apparently, their first victim. It was perfectly clear that any appeal in his behalf to General Smith would lead to nothing but loss of time. The more I reflected upon what I was to do, the more hopeless the case appeared. Thought was useless; I must act upon impulse, or I should not act at all. “Come,” I said, “there is only one man on earth who can save your comrade. Fortunately, he is the best man on the continent. We will go to President Lincoln.” I went swiftly out of the Treasury over to the White House, and up the stairway to the little office where the President was writing. The boys followed in a procession. I did not give the thought time to get any hold on me that I, an officer of the government, was committing an impropriety in thus rushing a matter upon the President’s attention. The President was the first to speak. “What is this?” he asked. “An expedition to kidnap somebody, or to get another brigadier appointed, or for a furlough to go home to vote? I cannot do it, gentlemen. Brigadiers are thicker than drum-majors, and I couldn’t get a furlough for myself if I asked it from the War Department.” There was hope in the tone in which he spoke. I went straight to my point. “Mr. President,” I said, “these men want nothing for themselves. They are Green Mountain boys of the Third Vermont, who have come to stay as long as you need good soldiers. They don’t want promotion until they earn it. But they do want something that you alone can give them--the life of a comrade.” “What has he done?” asked the President. “You Vermonters are not a bad lot, generally. Has he committed murder, or mutiny, or what other felony?” “Tell him,” I whispered to the Captain. “I cannot! I cannot! I should stammer like a fool! You can do it better!” “Captain,” I said, pushing him forward, “Scott’s life depends on you. You must tell the President the story. I know it only from hearsay.”