Now, in an effort to bring things to a pass, I shouted loud, "What army do you belong to?" Another voice shouted loud, "What army do you belong to?" I had emphasized the word "army." He had emphasized the word "you." Perhaps they thought I might be one of their own men, sent out in front and trying to return; but if that were the case, why did they not bid me come in? If they thought me a Confederate, very likely they thought I was trying to desert, and feeling my way through fear of falling into the hands of the wrong people. I replied at once, "I am a rebel." What it was that influenced me to use the word I do not know, unless it was that I thought that if they were our men I was safe, being in their rear, and that if they were Yankees they would at once accept the challenge. I wanted to end the matter. They accepted. A dozen voices shouted, "We are for the Union!" and half a dozen rifles cracked. They must have fired into the fence-row. I heard no bullet--but then, no bullet can be heard at such a nearness. I kept my post--flat on my face. It would not be best for me to rise and run. Perhaps I could get off by doing so, but I could manage better. I would remain quiet until they should think I had gone. Then I would crawl away. Two or three minutes passed. I was making up my mind to start. Suddenly a gruff voice spoke. It was near me. It was in the fence-row. A Yankee had crept toward me. He said, at an ordinary pitch, but very gruffly, "Who _are_ you, anyhow?" If he is yet alive, these lines may inform him that I was Jones. It was my time to be silent. I feared that he would continue to come, but the next instant I knew that he was in doubt as to how many I was, and I stuck fast. I heard nothing more. No doubt he had given it up--had gone back and reported that the enemy had disappeared from the immediate front. Five minutes more, and I had picked up my gun and was walking back to our line. I struck it in front of Company C, whose men had been warned that I was out, but who now had to be restrained from firing on me. They had heard the voices up the hill, and bullets had whistled over them, and they had thought me a prisoner, so when they saw a man coming toward them they were itching to shoot. We remained all night as we were, with a gap in the skirmish-line at the left of Pender's division. XXXIII HELL "Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock." --BYRON.