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Colonel Straight of the 51st Indiana Volunteers, and Captain II. B. Chamberlain of the 97th New York Volunteers, after leaving the prison took a northeasterly course, and halted at four o'clock, on the morning of the 10th of February, in a dense wood close by the Chickahominy swamps, and remained the next day. At dark they started again on their journey, crossing the Chickahominy on a fallen tree, and got into a dense thicket, and accomplished only five miles. The third night they started again, steering for the Pamunkey River. The detours they had to make to keep under cover of the woods, and traversing swamps, took them till daylight to reach midway between the Chickahominy and Pamunkey. Next night they reached the Pamunkey ten miles above the White House. The river was up—deep, dangerous and cold-swimming it impracticable.

After four day's delay a negro took them across in a boat-another negro piloted them down the river, fifteen miles, they reached York River, got across in a skiff, reached Yorktown on the 21st and Fortress Monroe the 24th of February.


A PLEASANT little incident occurred one evening at General Thomas' Headquarters. Little Johnny Clem, the motherless atom of a drummer-boy, "aged ten," (according to the papers,) who had strayed away from Newark, Ohio, and the first that was known of him, though small enough to live in a drum, was beating the long roll for the 32d Michigan, was the subject and centre of attraction.

At Chickamauga he had served as "marker," carrying the guidon, by means of which the lines are formed —a duty similar to that of the surveyor's flag-man, who flutters a red signal along the metes and bounds.

On the Sunday of the battle—the little fellow's occupation gone, he picked up a gun that had slipped from some dying hand, provided himself with ammunition, and began putting in the periods, quite on his own account; blazing away close to the ground, like a firefly in the grass.

Late in the waning day, the waif, left almost alone in the whirl of the battle, a Rebel Colonel dashed up, and looking down at him, ordered him to surrender. “Surrender!" he shouted. The word was scarcely out of his mouth, when Johnny brought his piece to “order," and as his hand slipped down to the hammer, he pressed it back, swung his gun up to the position of “charge bayonet," and as the officer raised his sabre to strike it aside, the glancing barrel lifted into range, and the proud Colonel fell dead from his horse.

A few swift moments ticked on by musket-shots, and the tiny gunner was swooped up and borne away captive by the Rebels. Soldiers bigger, but not better were taken with him, only to be swept back again, by a surge of Federal troops, and the prisoner of thirty minutes was John Clem, "of ours" again, and General Rosecrans made him a Sergeant, and the stripes of rank covered him all over, like a mouse in harness; and the daughter of Mr. Secretary Chase presented him a silver medal, appropriately inscribed, which he worthily wears, a royal order of honor, upon his left breast; and all men conspire to spoil him, but since few ladies can get at him here, perhaps he may be saved.

But, what about last night? Well, like Flora McFlimsey, the Sergeant had “nothing to wear;" the clothing in the wardrobe of loyal livery was not at all like Desdemona's handkerchief, “too little,” but like the garments of the man who roamed over a baker's oven, "a world too wide," and so Miss Babcock, of the Sanitary Commission, suggested to a friend, that a unifor for the little Orderly would be acceptable.

Mr. Waite, and other gentlemen of the “Sherman House," order it; Messrs. A. D. Titsworth & Co., made it; Chaplain Raymond brought it; Miss Babcock presented it; and Johnny put it on. Chaplain Raymond, of the 51st Illinois, by the by, a most earnest and efficient officer, accompanied the gift with exceedingly appropriate suggestions and advice.

This morning we happened at the headquarters just as the belted and armed Sergeant was booted and spurred, and ready to ride. Resplendent in his elegant uniform, rigged cap-a-pie, modest, frank, with a clear eye and a manly face, he looked more like a fancy picture than a living thing

Now he is in his thirteenth year, yet he would be no monster if called but nine. Think of a sixty-three pound Sergeant-fancy a handful of a hero, and then read the “ Arabian Nights," and believe them! Long live the little Orderly!

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