We were in the saddle again an hour before sunset, our next point being
a log-hut on the very topmost ridge of the Alleghanies, wherein dwelt a
man said to be better acquainted than any other in the country round,
with the passes leading into the Shenandoah Valley. We ascertained,
beyond a doubt, that a company was stationed at Greenland Gap, close to
which it was absolutely necessary we should pass; but with a thoroughly
good local guide, we might fairly count on the same luck which had
brought us safe round Oakland. Night had fallen long before we came down
on the South River, a mere mountain torrent, at ordinary seasons; but
now, flowing along with the broad dignity of a swift, smooth river. My
guide's mare wanted shoeing, and there chanced to be a rude forge close
to the ford, which is the only crossing-place since the bridge was
destroyed last autumn by the Confederates. It was important that the
local pilot should be secured as soon as possible (he was constantly
absent from home), so I rode on alone, with directions that were easy to
follow.
The smith, whose house stood but three hundred yards or so off, had told
me that I had to strike straight across the ford, for a gap in the dense
wood cloaked by the opposite bank. It was disagreeably dark at the
water's edge, for the low moon was utterly hidden behind a thicket of
cypress and pine; but I did make out a narrow opening _exactly_
opposite; for this I headed unhesitatingly.
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