2. II.
It was in the last days of October, 1862. McClellan had followed
Lee to Sharpsburg; fought him there; refitted his army;
recrossed the Potomac, and was rapidly advancing toward Warrenton,
where the fatal fiat from Washington was to meet him,
“Off with his head! So much for Buckingham.”
But in these last days of October the wind had not yet wafted
to him the decree of the civilians. He was pressing on in
admirable order, and Lee had promptly broken up his camps
upon the Opequon to cross the Blue Ridge at Chester's Gap, and
interpose himself between McClellan and the Rapidan.
The infantry moved; the cavalry followed, or rather marched
to guard the flank.
Stuart crossed the Shenandoah at Castleman's; the column
moved through Snicker's Gap; then from the eastern slopes of
the Blue Ridge were seen the long trains of McClellan in the
distance, winding toward Middleburg and Aldie.
In front of these trains we knew very well that we would find
the Federal cavalry under that able soldier, General Bayard, if
he did not find us. For we had trains also, and it was more
than probable that Bayard would strike at them through the
passes of the Ridge. To prevent him from so doing it seemed
most advisable to carry the war into Africa by a blow at him,
and Stuart moved on without pausing toward Bloomfield. This
village was passed; we reached the little hamlet of Union, where
the people told us, with what truth I know not, that a party of
the enemy had just ridden through, firing right and left upon
citizens and children; then pushing on, in the splendid autumn
sunshine, the brigade—Fitz Lee's, commanded by the gallant
Wickham—reached the vicinity of Mountsville.
Stuart was riding gaily at the head of his horsemen, when
Wickham galloped up from the advance guard, and announced
that a heavy picket force was camped at Mountsville, visible
through the lofty trees upon its hill.
“Charge it!” was the General's reply; and pushing on, he
was there almost as soon as the advance guard.
They dashed upon the camp, or bivouac rather, with shouts;
bang! bang! bang! from the carbines told that the blue and
gray people had come into collision: and then the cheers of the
Southerners indicated that they were driving in the picket force
upon the main body.
In a moment we had reached the spot, and in a field were the
hastily abandoned accoutrements of the Federal cavalry. Saddles,
blankets, oil-cloths, carbines, sabres, and coats were scattered
everywhere. Upon the ground, a bright red object glittered
in the sunshine—it was the flag, or guidon of the enemy,
abandoned like the rest. The Federal picket force, consisting
of the First Rhode Island Cavalry, between seventy-five and one
hundred in number, had disappeared as a handful of dry leaves
disappear, swept away by the wind.
The Southerners pursued with shouts and carbine shots—but
officers and men, bending from the saddle, caught upon the points
of their sabres, as they passed at full speed, those precious
“quartermaster stores,” blankets, oil-cloths, so scarce in the
poverty-stricken Confederacy. The present writer was almost
destitute on the last day of October—on the first day of November
he was rich. His cavalier outfit had been reinforced by an
excellent regulation blanket, heavy and double: and a superb
india-rubber poncho, on which was inscribed the name “Lougee.”
If the original owner of that fine military cloak survives, I beg
to express my hope that he did not suffer, in the winter nights
of 1862, for want of it.
The Federal camp had vanished, as I have said, as though
carried away by the wind. The carbine shots were heard receding
still toward Aldie—prisoners began to come back toward
the rear. The name of another member of the First Rhode Island
I can give. A young attaché of General Stuart's staff had captured
a stout animal, and while leading him, was suddenly saluted
by the words, “There is Brown's horse!” from a Federal prisoner
passing. Brown's horse travelled afterwards extensively, and
visited the low country of North Carolina. Most erratic of lives
for men and animals is the military life. You know whence you
come, not at all whither you go!
These trifles have diverted me from the main subject of the
present sketch. I approach that subject with reluctance, for the
picture to be drawn is a sad one. It is nothing to record the
gay or comic incidents of other times—to let the pen glide,
directed by the memory, when the lips are smiling and the heart
is gay. To record the sad events, however, the blood, the tears—
believe me, that is different.
I was pushing on, when a groan from the roadside drew my
eyes in that direction. I looked and saw a man lying on his back,
writhing to and fro, upon the grass. Some cavalrymen had
stopped, and were looking at him curiously.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“The Yankee captain, sir,” replied one of the men.
“The Captain commanding the picket?”
“Yes, sir; when his men ran, he mounted his horse to keep
from being captured. The horse was unbridled—the Captain
could not guide him with the halter, and he ran away. Then
one of our men rode up close and shot him—the horse jumped
the fence and threw him—he looks like he was dying.”
“Poor fellow! but I suppose he is only wounded. Look
after him.”
And I went on to catch up with General Stuart, who had
ridden on in advance.
Two hundred yards from the spot I found him sitting on
his horse in the road and waiting for his column.
“General,” I said, “do you know that the officer commanding
the picket was shot?”
“No; where is he?”
“He is lying yonder in the corner of the fence, badly
wounded.”
Stuart looked in the direction of the wounded man.
“This ought to be attended to,” he said. “I do not like to
leave him there, but I must go on. I wish you would see to this—
Dr. Mount is at Mountsville, tell him to have the officer carried
there, and to look to his wound. But first take his parole. He
is a prisoner.”
The General then rode on, and I hastened back to the suffering
officer.
The spectacle was a piteous one. He was lying in a corner
of the fenee, writhing and groaning. From his lips came incessantly
those pathetic words which the suffering utter more than
all others—“Oh! my God! my God!”
I dismounted, and bent over him.
“Are you in very great pain?”
“Oh! my God!”
“Where are you wounded?”
“Oh! my God! my God!”
I could see no blood, and yet this human being was evidently
stretched upon the rack. What he required was a physician;
and mounting my horse I galloped to Mountsville, only a few
hundred yards distant, where I saw and gave the General's message
to Dr. Mount. The doctor promptly answered that he would
send immediately for the sufferer, and dress his wound; and having
received this assurance, I returned to the spot where he lay
“Do you suffer as much now?” I asked.
A groan was the reply.
“You will be taken care of—a surgeon is coming.”
But I could not attract his attention. Then all at once I
remembered the general's order. I was to parole this man—
that order must be obeyed, unless I thought him dying or sure
to die. It was my duty as a soldier to observe the directions
which I had received.
I looked at the sufferer; could see no blood; thought “this
wound may be only very painful;” and, taking from my military
satchel a scrap of paper, wrote with a pencil the parole
which I have copied in the beginning of this paper.
Then kneeling down beside the officer, I placed the pencil in
his hand, read the parole, and he attached his name to it, without
objection—exhibiting, as he did so, many evidences of suffering,
but none of approaching death.
Fifteen minutes afterwards a vehicle was brought, and Captain
Gove, of the First Rhode Island Cavalry, was conveyed, in charge
of a surgeon, to Mountsville.
