I was
to meet them there, at a certain house, on a certain day, traveling by
another route--through Frederick city. Thither I betook myself by the
train leaving Baltimore, on the afternoon of March the 10th, arriving at
Frederick nearly two hours behind time, in consequence of a difficulty
between the wheels and the rails, the latter having become sulkily
slippery with the sleet that came on in earnest after nightfall. Very
early the next morning I started for Petersville, near which village, in
the shadow of the South Mountain, lay the country-house of the
good-natured friend who had offered to forward me to Sharpsburg.
I shall not easily forget that drive; the distance was rather under
fourteen miles, and it was performed in something over four hours; yet
the load consisted simply of my driver, myself, and my saddle-bags, in
the lightest conceivable wagon, drawn by a pair of horses especially
selected for strength rather than speed. We traveled on a broad
turnpike, not inferior, I was told, in ordinary times to the average of
such roads; in many places the mud literally touched the axles, and more
than once we should have been set fast in spite of the struggles of our
team, if I had not lightened the weight by descending into a quagmire
that reached fully half-way up my thigh-boots.
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