The boy climbed a little clumsily into the saddle. His left shoulder still felt like a big balloon stuffed full of pain. But there was nothing clumsy in his seat, as Bob shot off like an arrow at the touch of Tom's heel on his flank. It was a beautiful, bright April morning, too beautiful a day for men to be killing each other. Evidently, however, it did not seem so to the commander of a company of Confederate cavalry, who had laid an ambush into which Tom gayly galloped. He heard a sharp order to halt. He saw men ride across the road in front of him. He whirled about, only to see the road behind him blocked. He was fairly trapped. But there was one chance of escaping from the trap and Tom took it. His would-be captors had come from the left of the road, its northern side, for he was traveling east. On the south was a high rail-fence, laid in the usual zigzags, one of the few which had not fed the camp-fires of Northern Virginia. It was a good five feet high; it was only a few feet away; Bob was standing still for a second in slippery mud. It was not at all the kind of place to select for a jump, but the Confederates had selected the place, not Tom. He remembered Colonel Porter's saying "You can bet your life Bob can jump," and he bet his life on Porter's being right. He put Bob at the fence. The gallant gray, as if he sensed his master's danger, took one bound toward the rails, gathered himself together into a tense mass of muscle, and rose into the air like a bird. As he flew over the top-rail, carbines cracked behind him, but as he leaped southward across the countryside, a ringing cheer followed him too. The brave Southerners rejoiced in the brave feat that took their captive into freedom. Their jaded horses could not follow. There was no pursuit. It took Tom some hours to double back towards Grant's headquarters. He met long lines of Union cavalry, infantry, and artillery pressing forward to strengthen Sheridan's forces. They were going west and they choked every road and lane and path by which the boy sought to go east. They had begun their march at three o'clock that morning. They had had no breakfast. They carried no food. Their wagon-trains were miles in the rear. It was their fourth day of continuous fighting. They had a right to be tired, but they were not tired. They had a right to be hungry, but they were not hungry. When the air was full of victory, what did an empty stomach matter? Cheering and singing, they swept along. The end of four years' fighting was in sight. The hunted foe was trying to slink away to safety, as many a fox, with hounds and huntsmen closing in upon him, had tried to do on these Virginian fields. Never were huntsmen more anxious to be "in at the death" than were those joyous Union soldiers on that memorable April day. It was nearly night when the boy reached headquarters, saluted the commander-in-chief, said "A message from General Sheridan," and handed over the little tinfoil package.